Page 5 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

“Yes,” I grumbled, “we are leaving.”

“Alright.” Her gaze returns to the man standing beside me. “Bye—”

“I saidnow!” I snap the word escaping before I can pull it back. Instantly, I regret the edge in my tone as her smile fades. There is confusion mixed with a hint of hurt in her eyes.

I limp to the car with Rachel trailing behind me as we exit the building, the silence between us heavy.

The drive back to the hotel is painfully quiet, filled with unspoken words that hang in the air. I can sense she is on edge, her eyes on the window near her as we speed past buildings and people.

I glance at her, a wave of guilt crashing over me. I clear my throat and begin to speak.

“It’s not you. I just . . .” I trail off, running a hand through my hair. “It’s been a long day. I’m having a hard time adjusting.”

“It’s fine,” she mumbles, her eyes never leaving the window. “I understand the incident with your knee must have contributed.”

“Yes, yes, that.” I rub my forehead, wondering how easy it is to get out of the situation without an apology.

“We are here,” the cab driver announces as we come to a stop. I watch Rachel step out of the car with her eyes on the ground.

“I’m going for my training later in the afternoon. You can take my card and go shopping for anything you need. Make sure to buy nice things for yourself, too. I insist.”

Even though I’m trying to sound nice and empathetic, the words come out harsh and commanding, but it is the best I can do given the situation earlier. I turn away and walk toward my room.

The second I step into the suite; I feel the tension roll off my shoulders. I toss my jacket onto the couch and sit at the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over my face. Silence. Finally.

But, of course, that doesn’t last long. Two rapid knocks on my door cause me to sigh heavily.

“Come in!”

Rachel walks in with a tired expression. Her hand stretches out in front of her.

“Your mother is on the phone.”

My mother is the last person I want to speak to right now. The news of my aggravating injury must have reached her, seeing that I am limping around London all day with a stick. Surely, one of those eager journalists has taken a picture. Nothing can stop her priceless gem of a son. How else will she maintain her elite status and brag to her elegant friends?

I clench my jaw and wave my hand at her. “Tell her I’m busy.”

There is a brief pause before Rachel responds. “She said it’s important.”

“Just tell her I’m busy, Rachel. I don’t have time for this.”

“Okay.” Rachel backs away from me involuntarily, placing the phone to her ear and quietly murmuring into it.

“Anything else?” I mutter, still not turning to face her.

“Nothing,” she replies, moving toward the door, but something catches my eye—a tray on the small table near the window. I frown. A plate of food, neatly arranged, sits on the tray.

“Rachel,” I call her name, irritation already prickling at the edges of my voice, “what the hell is that?”

She glances at the tray, then back at me. “Breakfast,” she says, her tone neutral.

“You want me to have breakfast before training, or you simply want me to eat a cold breakfast when I’m back from training?” My voice raises several octaves.

Realization creeps across her face, and she moves toward the tray of food.

“Sorry, sir?” Her voice trembles.

“I don’t eat breakfast before training. You know that. It’s been two years working with me, Rachel.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I am already too annoyed to care. “Take it away.”

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