Page 8 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

I look up at him, shocked by the sudden display of affection. His eyes are a warmer hue, and his characteristic scowl is gone. A strange calm washes over me as my heart slows, but just as that warm side of him jumps out, it vanishes just as quickly. Vaughn removes his hand from my knee, as though a hot pot had singed him, before looking out the window.

The car drops me off at the new hotel before driving off with Vaughn to his training center.

As soon as I put all of Vaughn’s items in his room and arrange his clothes in his wardrobe, I rush back to my room and pull the Aspirin tablets from my bag. Without hesitation, I pop two pills into my mouth. My hand is smarting like hell where the door had hit my fingers. I find some ice and place it over the sore area before dropping onto my bed.Finally, some rest.

Grr. Grr.

“No!” I let out a loud cry as I pull my hair and run my palms across my face. The ringing doesn’t stop, and I know if it’s Mr. Vaughn, he will make my day even more miserable for not being at his beck and call during work hours.

I pick up the phone, and sure enough,My Bossis displayed across the screen.

“Hello,” I say in a tired, flat tone, hoping he will catch on to how exhausted I am.

“Are you at the hotel now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is it?”

“Up to standards, as you would have loved it,” I say, throwing in an exaggerated yawn in case he hasn’t gotten the clue.

“And the food?”

“I gave them very specific instructions on how it should be prepared.”

“Good then. Meet me at the training ground. Bring my lunch here.”

“Hello?”

“I said meet me at the training ground. I’m sending Nick back to get you.”

“Oh, okay,” I mumble and bury my face in my palm. The line clicks dead, and I let out a loud screech before punching the air with my fist. “God, I just want a bloody nap.”

Mr. Nicholas finds me standing in the same spot he dropped me off before. In my hand is a pack of food.

“Hey, Nick,” I greet him as I get into the front seat with him.

“You look like you have seen a ghost. Have you had any rest today?”

“Not that I know of,” I say as I lean back into the soft leather seat and shut my eyes. That simple act sends me straight into a short nap.

It is Mr. Nicholas shaking me vigorously that rudely interrupts my peaceful napping experience. “We’re here,” he announces.

“Sorry.” I rub my eyes as I step out of the car. We are standing in front of what looks like a normal building with men in black prowling the premises.

We move past the hefty guards at the door after they finish frisking us and swiping their metal detectors. I find myself standing inside what looks like a stadium. No one would have guessed that such beauty is hidden inside such a simple-looking building.

The soccer field stretches out in front of me, a pristine sea of green, with lines neatly marking the boundaries. The air is cool, and the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint scent of new paint hits my nostrils. I look up and see a lonefigure sprinting across the field, dribbling a ball past the lined-up cones.

He appears super focused on getting past the cones, and our sudden appearance does not faze him. Just watching him stirs something inside of me. I watch as he moves across the field, fast and precise, his feet controlling the ball like it’s an extension of his body. His muscles ripple with every kick, every pivot, his white shirt clinging to his back, soaked in sweat. My eyes trace the strong lines of his arms and back, and my mouth suddenly feels parched.

Effortlessly, he finds the back of the net, the ball flying into the top corner. That is when he turns to his right and jogs in our direction. There is a limp in his steps, and I can tell that he is straining himself just to train. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead as he arrives in front of me. I hand him the pack of food.

He doesn’t hesitate to rip the nylon open. I watch him take several bites in succession. The sweat dribbles down his face, and a drop just sits at the top of his nose, threatening to fall into his egg salad and spinach. I want to tell him, but he gets to it before me, wiping it off with the back of his wrist.

“Fans taken care of?” he asks, his tone clipped but his mouth full and moving.

“Yes,” I sigh, hoping that he will not make me stay any longer than I have to.

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