Page 7 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

We step out into the hallway, which is completely deserted and eerily quiet. The elevator dings open, and we enter. Mr. Nicholas presses the button for the ground floor.

“And Mr. Vaughn—how is he doing?” I ask.

Mr. Nicholas turns to look at me with sad eyes and shrugs. “Not so great, I suppose. He has been in a showdown with management all afternoon.”

I swallow the crushing feeling of despair in my chest. Even though I know none of this is my fault, I know Vaughn well enough to realize that I am not going to go scot-free with this. I had explicitly told the hotel to keep it discreet. Knowing how they operate, it is no surprise they have probably sold the information to some big network company for publicity and a few extra bucks.

Mr. Nicholas did poorly in conveying Vaughn’s state of mind because, even before we step out of the elevator, I hear Vaughn’s voice ringing out loudly. We turn the corner, and there he is, pacing across the hotel suite. His jaw is tight, one hand curlinginto a fist while the other pushes hair out of his face. I can see the distended green veins along the side of his neck.

“I paid so much more to you to keep my identity here very discreet, and now we have this? And you are telling me that it could have been anyone who leaked it? What, then, did we pay you for?”

He steps dangerously close to the hotel’s manager, seething with rage.

“Mr. Vaughn,” the manager begins, placing a hand on Vaughn’s shoulder, which is quickly shrugged off. “We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. We’ve increased security, and we’re confident we can control the situation. We strongly advise you to stay here for your safety instead of—”

Vaughn cuts him off, his voice low and steady but filled with the kind of authority that brooks no argument. “We’re leaving. Now.”

The manager’s smile falters. “But, Mr. Vaughn, it’s really not—”

“I expect a refund before the close of business tomorrow—unless, of course, you want me to throw the full weight of my legal team at you.”

“Mr. Vaughn—”

“Is everyone set to go?”

“Yes,” I answer.

Vaughn’s eyes narrowed on me. “You and I have a lot of talking to do, but first, I need to get out of here and be at the training ground.”

As soon as the words leave his lips, he turns and begins to move toward the exit.

The bodyguards follow him swiftly—one overtaking him to lead, another flanking my side, and Mr. Nicholas taking up the rear as we move toward the exit.

The bodyguard presses his finger to his earpiece, his brow furrowing. “The crowd’s pressing in near the exit. We’ll have to go out the back.”

Vaughn turns around and takes one look at me. “Stay close!”

As we step out through the back door, a small iron door that swings outward, the cold morning air hits us. I can hear the noise now, even though we are far away from the main exit. The chanting voices of a hundred, maybe a thousand fans, fill the air.

“Hey, there he is! Mr. Vaughn is right here!” I turn in the direction of the loud voice. It’s a lone boy in his late teens holding out a ball and dashing toward us.

“Hurry to the car now,” the bodyguard beside me hisses, grabbing my arm and starting to propel me toward the car. “Stay back!” he hisses at the boy, who continues advancing toward us regardless. “I said stay back,” he repeats, pulling a gun from his pocket and pointing it at the boy.

I am stunned, a lump forming in my throat. The boy gets the message and immediately falls to the ground with his hands raised to the sky. We all hurry to the black limousine, waiting down the alley. It all happens fast, and soon, Vaughn and I are wedged between the two bodyguards.

As we speed away, I catch sight of the screaming crowd rushing in our direction. For at least a hundred meters, they charge like mindless zombies hunting their first meal. Then, just as suddenly, they all stop and start waving. As they fade into the distance, one thought lingers in my mind: how could they have known where to find us?

“Why did you do that?” I adjust in my seat and turn to the bodyguard who pointed the gun at the boy.

He looks down at me with a raised brow and a smirk.

“Why would you point a gun at him?”

“Would you have preferred that the crowd got to us first?”

“That doesn’t warrant pointing a gun at him. What if it had gone off and shot him?”

“It was a stun gun.” Vaughn places his hand on my knee and squeezes. “It’s fine now. Just relax.”

---