Page 6 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

Rachel nods quickly, grabbing the tray. I watch her, slightly annoyed by how she cowers in my presence, not even putting up defiance. A part of me wants her to fight back to tell me I am being a jerk, but like everyone else, she nods her head in agreement and does as I say.

“Anything else I should know?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm as she moves toward the door. She doesn’t say a word as she shakes her head slightly with the tray balanced carefully in her hands. I lean back against the headboard, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to stop the pounding in my skull.

“Go on then.”

As she reaches the door, it bursts open, slamming back against the wall with a loud bang. Rachel stumbles backward, the tray flying out of her hands, the dishes crashing to the floor asa group of fans suddenly flood into the room, screaming and rushing forward.

“Rachel!” I shout, bolting up from the bed.

“It’s him!” A group of girls scream as they charge toward me, completely ignoring Rachel on the ground. “Please sign my ball.”

“Everyone, calm down! I’ll sign outside the door to the hallway.”

They all rush out into the hallway the same way they came. I reach down and grab Rachel’s arm.

“What thehellwas that?” I growl, my voice dangerously low. “How did they even get in here?”

“I don’t know.” Rachel blinks at me, clearly shaken but still trying to keep that calm exterior.

“Did you not think to ensure the security of the hotel first? What is this?”

“I . . . I’ll talk to management—”

“You should’ve done thatbeforethey barged in here!” I snap, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “This is your job, Rachel. To handle things like this. Not to stand there like you’ve got no idea what’s going on.”

Her face is pale, and she opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out.

“Just . . . get it sorted,” I mutter, turning away from her and putting on a bright smile as I step out into the hallway.

Chapter three

Chapter Three

Rachel

Ipress my finger against my temple as my head threatens to blow up in smithereens from the throbbing headache radiating to the left side of my face. I hear knocking on the door and turn toward the sound.

“Come in!” I yell, expecting it to be Mr. Nicholas, the driver.

“Are you done here?” The driver pokes his head through the door, his cap shielding his perpetually bloodshot eyes. On some days, I have the overwhelming need to do a drug test on him. There is no way he is not on some substance. But Vaughn couldn’t care less.

“Mr. Nick, I’m done packing. I believe you can take this downstairs,” I say, pushing the bag toward him.

He catches the rolling box with his feet and looks up at me.

“I have orders to escort you out of your room,” he says in a grave voice.

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Vaughn said not to let you out of my sight. He wants me to make sure you are safe.”

“I am fine, Mr. Nick. Just get the bags to the car.”

“We are all leaving together. Fans are swarming the hostel premises. I parked the car behind the hotel, so we are going that way—and I have to take you with me.”

I move toward the window and draw the curtains back. Looking down, I see hundreds of people surrounding the building. The shut windows and our being on the fifteenth floor mean I can’t hear them.

“Alright, let’s go,” I say to Mr. Nicholas, pulling the hoodie over my head.

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