My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star (HOT Firefighters & Sportsmen)

3. Chapter Three

Rachel

I press 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.

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 curling into 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.”

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 Boss is 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 lone figure 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.

He picks up the bottle of water sitting by the fence and chugs it while holding his food in one hand. In all of this, he looks rather content and not the vicious boss who seems to scare everyone.

“Are you sure it’s safe to be training with your knee?”

He looks up at me, saying nothing as he continues to chew slowly. I can tell that he thinks I am asking a stupid question. I look down at my fingers and rub them slowly. I can see a swelling beginning to appear around the area where it stings.

“What happened to your fingers?” His gaze shifts down to my hand before I can pull it away.

“It’s nothing,” I mutter, feeling embarrassed. “Got a bit bruised when the door swung open.”

Without a word, Vaughn reaches for my hand, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they close around mine. His touch is warm, and there’s a softness in the way he turns my hand over to inspect the bruise. His thumb brushes over the tender spot, and for a moment, my breath catches.

It’s strange to see him like this, focused but not in that cold, detached way I’m used to. It’s the first time he is paying me any attention outside of work, which is often negative. I look at him as he inspects my hand. What could possibly be going through his mind? Does he like my manicure? Does he find my fingers too thin or my hands too coarse? But then, just as quickly, he drops my hand, just like he had done when he first placed his hand on my knee in the car.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, his voice flat. “You can tell Nick to take you to the hospital to have it checked out if it bothers you so much. Make sure you both get back here in time, though. I’ll be training for the next”—he pauses and flips his wrist to check the time—“three hours. Besides, every day not spent training is a day wasted.”

As he says the last words, he turns and jogs back onto the field.

I stare after him, my hand still tingling where his fingers touched. That’s it? No concern, no acknowledgment of what just happened—just back to business as usual.

I sigh, shaking my head as I watch him call for the ball again. Another man I hadn’t noticed earlier throws a ball at him, and in seconds, his focus is completely back on the game. He dribbles it with that same relentless intensity, his body moving in perfect sync with the ball. Another shot flies into the net, and the sound of the ball hitting the back of the goal echoes across the empty field.

“Mr. Nick?” I turn around to find the driver, who is sitting three rows behind me. There is a wide smile on his face as he watches Vaughn. I feel irritation creep across my skin.

“Yes?”

“Take me home. We have to be back in three hours, and I really need a nap as it is.” There is no way I am going to waste another three hours waiting for him to be done with training.