My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star (HOT Firefighters & Sportsmen)

13. Chapter Thirteen

Rachel

“ Who the hell is that guy? What a perfect corner kick. Just . . . look at that!” Raphael exclaims and turns to the cameraman. “I hope you captured that kick. It’s too perfect not to have been captured.”

The videographer nods with an absent-minded, forced smile as he focuses on his work. I bet he’s had enough of the seemingly unending noises from Raphael—the graduate of the University of Yappahonics—himself.

I hardly blame him, though. Even if he almost never keeps his mouth shut, I, too—who barely have any knowledge of the technicalities of soccer despite having worked for Vaughn for two years—am engrossed.

“He must be a new player,” I offer. “His face doesn’t ring any bells.”

“I figured so.” Raphael walks toward me with quick steps and sits beside me on the bench. “With players like this, the Amaris Cup is as good as ours. Two more players like this, and it is definitely ours,” he adds in a whisper.

I scoff. “I thought they say the more exceptionally good players there are in a team, the less likely they are to get to the finals.”

He gives me a look that says, That’s the most ridiculous thing I have heard all week.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I thought so, too. But I guess it has something to do with all the great players thinking they are the best . . . I guess?”

I’m unsure where I heard that, probably from one of Vaughn’s interviews or perhaps on TV.

“That sort of makes sense. But the club has always prided itself on its great team spirit. I am sure that wouldn’t be a problem when it comes to NYFC.”

I shrug and stifle a yawn. I should have no business being at the New York Football Club’s headquarters at three in the afternoon. If anything, I should be in my tiny little apartment watching a Netflix series while gently petting Archie. But what else would one expect working for Vaughn Graham, the most demanding, arrogant, and entitled man on earth?

For me, it’s just another day in my life of being underappreciated at my job—normal.

“Aaaaaaand cut!” I hear the head of the videography crew yell just in time to see the players walking toward the sidelines, all sweaty and out of breath.

“I guess it’s time for a break,” Raphael says as he laboriously gets back to his feet to review the footage of what has been captured by the crew. He is taking this newfound task of his way too seriously, and it’s obvious he wants something out of it.

Raphael would have done better as a politician than a footballer’s agent because he seems more interested in the politics of it all rather than focusing on his job. I mean, he tries, but I am 100 percent sure Vaughn would do just fine without him. We are supposed to meet with the representative of Mobilix Solutions over dinner tomorrow with Vaughn’s lawyer, and he hasn’t brought up the talk with me, even though he plays a good role as Vaughn’s agent.

“No, I think they are done for the day,” I say, a warmth of gratefulness spreading over my chest. It ended sooner than I expected.

I turned my head to look at Raphael, only to see a mask of shock and disbelief on his face. I follow his gaze, and then I see it: reporters, about twenty of them, bearing microphones and broadcasting equipment, flock into the stadium. The expression on my face must mimick the one I see on Raphael’s as I stare in awe at what just happened.

“Who the hell let them in?” Raphael asks no one in particular. “It’s not even the season yet.”

But what really gets me is how composed each and every player is. It’s almost like they are expecting this to happen. Although some of them manage to get away, most of them stay and professionally answer the questions thrown at them by the news-hungry reporters, even though they are obviously exhausted.

Everyone except for Vaughn.

He appears visibly stressed, his palms on his hips and his eyes darting aimlessly around the pitch as he answers questions. I take that as my cue to go meet him.

I nudge Raphael, and we both stand up from our seats and rush toward Vaughn. Just as we get to him, the stamping of multiple feet follows, and a heavy, sweaty body is thrust onto me.

I gasp for breath. What was that?

The next thing I see answers my questions. About a hundred soccer fans flock into the stadium, and that’s when I also realize their chatter and noise have increased—a change that went below my radar because I thought they were reporters. Amid the tugging and pulling, I panic and look around for any sign of Raphael or Vaughn. Still, all I see are the multiple heads of soccer fans, who are starting to behave like zombies at this point.

I hear a voice in the distance barking, “Security! Security!”

At this point, I am in the middle of a crowd that has formed so quickly that all I can do is stare. Worse, more of them keep gushing through the entrance.

Shit. They must have been waiting all day for the perfect opportunity to come rushing in like a herd of cattle. And where the hell is security when you need them? Don’t soccer players have bodyguards or something?

For whatever reason, the crowd becomes stagnant. The fans keep screaming and cheering, and I can barely make out what they are saying. If it’s an autograph they want, I am sure whatever paper they have must be torn by now.

The push of the crowd makes me feel like my ribcage is about to be crushed, and I gasp for air as I struggle futilely to navigate my way.

Just then, a hand grips my wrist. I almost jumped in fright. I don’t need someone else to scare me more than I already am. But when I turn to see who it is, I become even more confused. It’s the new player whose corner kick Raphael commented on earlier.

Before I can say a word, he gently tugs at my wrist. “This way.”

Like Moses parting the Red Sea, a narrow path leading to a room appears before him. He starts walking, pulling me gently behind him, and soon enough, I find myself in what appears to be the male locker room.

I heave a sigh of relief and fall into a nearby chair, struggling to catch my breath.

I hadn’t thought about how awkward it would be to be pulled into the male locker room until I raised my head. The players are throwing sideways glances at me, and embarrassment churns within my stomach.

I think of saying hello to them but then figure that my voice would likely sound like that of a toad. That isn’t likely to help with the embarrassment I already feel inside. Instead, I turn to my helper.

“Thank you.”

My helper is still standing, his gaze fixed on me, and this is when I study his features. His chiseled jaw curves upward into a smile. “Don’t mention it. It’s hard not to help a beautiful damsel in distress.” He sits down beside me. He says almost in a whisper, “And yes, I know ‘beautiful’ and ‘damsel’ sort of mean the same thing, but I figure that’s the only way to do you justice.”

Corny.

But I still can’t help but smile as his amber eyes beam at me. It must be because of how cute his eyes are.

“What’s your name, beautiful damsel?”

“Rachel,” I introduce, extending my hand. He grabs my hand and shakes it. “Collins.”

Gosh. He has a perfect set of white teeth, too.

“I might have been stomped to death if it wasn’t for your timely intervention.”

He appears to muse for a while. “Seems so. That means we can do ‘knight in shining armor’ instead of Collins, then.”

We share a laugh, and I also catch a smile on one of the players’ faces. He’s as handsome as he’s funny, and judging from the fact that he helped me, he must be kind as well. Is there anything else a woman could want?

“Hey there, Rachel. We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you okay?” I hear Raphael’s voice from the entrance, and I turn my head. Standing beside him is Vaughn, his shirt slung over his shoulder. A deep scowl is etched on his face, and his well-sculpted body is glistening with sweat.

Sweet Jesus.

He looks like a god as he stands there. I gasp lightly before quickly averting my gaze to avoid embarrassing myself.

I force a smile at Raphael. “I am fine, thanks.”

I maintain the smile on my face as I look back at Collins, my mind blank. The only dominating thought in my mind at this point is that of time with Vaughn in his study.

Idiot!

I feel my face flush with embarrassment and annoyance. How dare his mere presence have such an effect on me? Is it because he’s shirtless? I have seen him shirtless countless times, so why?

Why does he get me feeling this way, even in the presence of a great guy like Collins?

From the look in Collins’s eyes, I can tell he senses something is off, as there isn’t much warmth in the smile he returns.