Page 62 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

Doubt creeps in as I hover over the Send button. What if she’s moved on? What if Collins is really interested in her, and I’ve missed my one and only chance? I’m frustrated with myself and shake my head. This isn’t about competition. It’s about telling her the truth and myself the truth.

With an exhale, I hit Send with a surge of determination. The message is simple but loaded with meaning:Hey, Rachel. Just wanted to see how you’re doing, I guess.

I watch the message fade away into nothing, and I am relieved and anxious at the same time. Whatever it is, I’m taking a step forward. It’s a start. It may not change anything, but it’s a start. Maybe that’s what I need right now—a chance to close the gap that’s formed between us, even if that feels wonky.

Chapter twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Rachel

My life has settled back into my usual routine of work. A week and a few days have passed since I came home—days I’ve spent buried in emails, meetings, and the never-ending pile of paperwork that multiplies by the hour. I sit at my desk, and I can’t help but feel empty, aching for Vaughn, for the way he used to occupy my thoughts, for the space he filled in the room around me.

But I trudge down its path as much as I can, trying to drown out the silence between us. My phone seems to be getting more looks than I’d like to admit, as I hope for a message that will never come. I replay how we spent our last moments on the island, laughing and being intimate, but now those memories feel so tawdry, so marred by the doubt that followed.

Today is a particularly heavy day as I sort through the everyday stuff that makes up my life. I try to concentrate, to drown out Vaughn and the connection we had, but it’s like trying to hold back a tide. There is always this nagging worry—what if he’s moved on? Maybe he’s forgotten all about me.

My phone buzzes on the desk just as I’m about to lose myself in another spreadsheet. My heart races as I see his name on the screen. I pick it up.

Hey, Rachel. Can you have a car sent to pick me up? I’m back in town.

The message is simple and practical, yet a flood of emotions rushes through me. I feel a mix of relief and disappointment—relief because he’s finally reached out, but disappointment because it’s so clinical, so cold.

My fingers hover above the Reply button as I stare at the screen. I want to say something witty or clever, but instead, I feel another wave of frustration building.

You don’t have to see me.

What does that even mean?

I take a deep breath and tell myself not to overreact. I won’t let his indifference bother me. I am not going to let him dictate how I feel. I put my phone down and pace the room, trying to release the emotions swirling inside me.

I relent after a moment and begin organizing a car. I can’t pretend I don’t want to see him, even if he keeps insisting he’s acting professionally. I grab my phone again and type out a quick response:

Okay, I’ll get a car arranged. When should it be there?

The wait feels excruciating, and I hit Send. I can’t help but imagine what he’s been up to in Australia, if he has thought of us at all. The longer I sit with those thoughts, the more my resolve slips. How can I let myself hope for something more when he’s so determined to keep his distance?

The minutes tick by, and then my phone buzzes again.

In about an hour. Thanks.

I let out a frustrated sigh. That’s it? No explanation, no small talk? The disappointment sinks into my chest, and I try not to dwell on it. So, instead of that, I force myself to get ready. I straighten my desk, and I clean up my appearance. I grab a blazer, brush my hair, and fight the whirlwind of emotions threatening to make me lose my composure.

I pace the living room as I wait for the car to arrive.

I check the clock, seconds ticking down. What am I even hoping for? A heartfelt reunion? An apology for everything that changed between us?

The doorbell rings, and I jump because I’m lost in thought. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm as I open the door to let the driver in. “Thank you,” I say automatically, trying to sound professional, but my heart is racing in anticipation.

I give the driver the directions from Vaughn and a pass that will grant him access to the VIP section at the airport.

Vaughn, Collins, and another teammate cram into the backseat of the car I sent to the airport to pick them up.

Sports channels are covering Vaughn’s return, and I find myself glued to the TV set. They drive out of the airport, and I can see the fans on the streets waving signs and yelling his name. I can’t help but envy the adoration he receives. That feeling fades quickly into concern when the car finally grinds to a halt, trapped in the chaos of the crowd.

I can almost picture the tension in his jaw, his eyes darting about like he’s searching for a way out.

There’s something that feels urgent to me. I have to help them, and quickly.

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