4. Hot Dads & Hat Tricks
Chapter four
Hot Dads & Hat Tricks
Grant
“We have a new midfielder starting next month, we just need to work out some visa issues and then he’s good to go.” Xavier announces, proud of himself for making a team choice that doesn’t come with any baggage.
We had no business owning a soccer club. None of us did.
Will’s got his hands full running a venture capital empire, Xavier practically breathes the financial services world, and I’ve spent years building my fortune, flipping struggling companies and stacking real estate like poker chips.
Not one of us needed a sports team. Hell, none of us had the time for one.
But then there was one night with too many drinks, too much bravado when an old, foolish childhood dream started to sound like a good idea. And because we’re all too stubborn to back down once we put something on the table, it steamrolled. Fast.
Now here we are—three billionaires who should’ve known better—owning a professional soccer club. And it’s no longer just a vanity project. It’s something with teeth. Something that could be incredibly rewarding or blow up in our faces if we can’t get this damn team in line.
Right now, the Strikers sit at a frustrating 9-13-5.
More losses than wins, but just enough points in the standings to keep them technically alive for the playoffs.
The talent’s there — a roster full of players who could easily turn the tide on any given night.
But consistency? Discipline? That’s where it all falls apart.
We’ve got at least five players who could be called up to play for their national teams next year.
That kind of exposure — being able to say we’ve got Strikers represented on the world stage could bring in sponsors, press, international eyes.
If only we could get them to act right long enough to make it happen.
Because if we don’t? It won’t just be a bad investment.
It’ll be a public disaster. And in our worlds, reputations are everything. The clock’s ticking and we all know it.
“Did you run that midfielder selection by Coach Jones?” Will asks, leaning back in his chair. “Last time I made a team decision without looping him in, the man had donkey shit delivered to my doorstep.”
Xavier just smirks. “I’m not scared of a little prank. Besides, I did talk to him. I wouldn’t dare make a final decision without his buy-in.”
Will slumps, defeated. “It was more than a prank. I stepped in it.”
My head snaps to him. “You stepped in donkey shit?”
His eyes go wide with pure trauma. “Yes!”
Xavier chuckles, but then leans forward, tone sharpening.
“And this is exactly why we need to get this team in line. From the coach down to the players, we’ve got a behavior problem.
If we don’t get it under control, we’re going to look like we’ve made the worst investment of the century.
This team needs to produce. Needs to win. ”
I raise my hand to jump in but Xavier barrels on, cutting me off with a grin.
“Win matches, Grant. Outside of the ones they’re winning in jail when they get arrested for indecent exposure!”
“Which brings me to you,” Xavier says, voice sharp and pointed.
“What about me?” I frown, already not liking where this is going.
“How are things coming with bringing Marlow up to speed? Getting her trained to take your spot as one of the owners?”
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly.
Earlier this year, something shifted in me. After God knows how many hours spent haggling with agents, smoothing things over with publicists, and juggling my own damn family dynamics, it hit me—this is all I’ve ever done. Work is all Marlow’s ever seen me do.
And to her own damn demise, she wants to follow in my footsteps.
My kid wants to run a business. But not one of my real estate companies. Not the world of flipping and selling companies I’ve built from scratch. No—she wants this one. The Atlanta Strikers. The one where no one in our collective circle really knows what the hell we’re doing.
We went round and round about it. Me trying to convince her that this life, this team, it’s no life for a twenty-seven-year-old woman. Her firing right back that this is exactly what I’ve prepared her for.
Somewhere in between her scathing arguments about how I’m the one less mature than her—and the very real threat of blackmail in the form of canceling my beloved Sunday dinners that she and I have every week—I gave in.
My kid always did know how to play to win. Maybe she won’t be so bad at this at all.
“She’s doing well,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “She’s been sitting in on management meetings, attending practices to get familiar with the team, and meeting with sponsors and vendors to learn the ins and outs of our contracts and merchandising process.”
Will nods, looking genuinely impressed. “All good things.”
“And what about you?” Xavier presses, eyes narrowing.
“Again...what about me?” I ask, though I know what he’s likely referring to.
“Are you staying out of trouble? Being on your best behavior?”
Ah, that part of the deal.
That was the other side of the blackmail.
The part that came from my so-called best friends.
They hadn’t exactly been thrilled about me grooming Marlow to take over my spot.
And with the club already drowning in scandals—on and off the field—the last thing they wanted was to add my antics to the headlines.
So they made me give them six months. Six months to train Marlow, get her ready to take the reins.
But also for those six months? No scandals.
No late-night photos of me and a few women partying in some senator’s pool.
No parading a new date that’s half my age to every charity event.
And absolutely no sleeping with an opposing coach’s ex-wife and posting pictures of her on social media to troll him the night before a game.
In other words...they wanted me to be someone I haven’t been since my wife was alive.
For six whole months.
And if I didn’t, it wouldn't just be my reputation on the line. It would jeopardize Will’s. Xavier’s. And worst of all—Marlow’s.
So here I am. One month sober and on my hot dad behavior.
Though this feels more like a hat trick than anything else because I can’t believe I’m actually pulling this off.
One month into playing the part of the responsible, well-behaved father and businessman.
One month post-Vegas. One month since meeting—and saying goodbye to—Eslin.
And damn if she hasn’t been haunting me ever since.
I haven’t touched another woman since that night. Haven’t even wanted to.
Which is saying something, considering I’m a card-carrying member of The Supper Club—Cinnamon Grove’s most exclusive spot for incredible food and…well, let’s just say dessert can take many forms there. I’ve never had a bad night in that place. Not once.
Until two weeks ago.
I walked in ready to do exactly what any red-blooded guy with a broken heart and too many pent-up fantasies would do—get Eslin out of my system. Preferably with a little help from a few of my favorite fellow female members.
Except…yeah. My brain was in it. My body? Not so much. No amount of charm, chemistry, or well-timed dirty talk could fix the problem.
The issue wasn’t them. The issue was me. Or more specifically, him.
Down there.
Total no-show.
Which is completely insane and so not like me!
I barely touched her. Barely. But somehow, that was enough.
One night. One woman. And now she’s lodged under my skin so deep, I can’t shake her.
I clear my throat, dragging myself back to the present. “And while we’re on the subject...” I pause, take a long sip of my drink, trying to summon what little courage I’ve got left.
“The new team therapist and performance coach?”
Will nods. “Eslin Saunders. She came highly recommended by Timantha’s former assistant.”
“Right,” I say carefully. “But what I haven’t told you is...” I start to ramble. “Remember I told you about that night in Vegas? The incredible woman I met?”
Xavier’s brow furrows. “Yeah?”
“Well... funny story…” I laugh nervously. “That woman was... is... Eslin Saunders.”
Xavier’s chair scrapes back. “The fuck? You fucked the team therapist already?” he practically shouts, jumping up to pour himself another drink.
“Keep your voice down! And no! I didn’t touch her, remember?”
“Okay, fine.” Xavier glares. “But why the hell are we just now hearing about this?”
Two days after Eslin and I parted ways, Marlow and I were on a plane back to Atlanta when the email came through from HR—one of those generic onboarding announcements about a new team hire. The therapist.
I barely glanced at it at first. The name caught my eye—Eslin. Unique, sure. But it still could’ve been anyone. We never exchanged last names, so seeing, “Welcome our new team member, Eslin Saunders,” didn’t immediately raise any red flags.
It wasn’t until I scrolled down and saw the attachment—her team photo, fresh from HR’s onboarding checklist—that everything slammed into place.
It was her. The woman who had flipped my world on its head in Vegas.
I had to sit there, trapped on that damn plane for four hours, with Marlow beside me, while my stomach bottomed out and my head spun, pretending like everything was perfectly fine.
I didn’t know how the hell I was going to tell Marlow. She was the one who made the hiring decision—her first big move in this new role. The last thing I wanted was to step in and make her feel like she’d screwed it up before she even got her footing. I wasn’t about to take that from her.
Which made the idea of telling Will and Xavier that much harder.
Because if there’s one thing these two don’t tolerate, it’s me complicating things. And this? Complicated as hell.
I let out a long sigh. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you. Hell, it’s been a month. Part of me was hoping she’d change her mind and not take the job.”
“Grant!” Xavier swears. “I swear to fucking God! If you screw this up, screw with her—”
“You don’t have to worry about it.” I raise both hands in mock surrender. “Not only did I make you both—and Marlow—a promise, I told Eslin the night we met we couldn’t be anything. Because of our age difference and my commitment to my daughter.”
Xavier exhales hard, visibly relaxing. “Well, you should’ve led with that.”
I look between them—two men who’ve had my back longer than I deserve. “You have my word,” I tell them, voice reassuring. “I’ll keep things professional with Eslin. No lines will be crossed.”
Will watches me for a beat, then nods. Xavier still looks like he wants to throw something, but eventually exhales and leans back in his chair.
“My focus is Marlow,” I continue. “Preparing her to take my place, making sure she’s ready when the time comes. And whatever I can do to help this team get to the championship, I’ll do it. You both know I’m in.”
They nod again, and I can visibly see the tension as it starts to ease.
We wrap the meeting, papers shuffled, chairs scraped back. But as I stand, gathering my things, a sharp ache tightens in my chest.
Because for the first time since Maddy, I’m going to have to deny myself something that—for once—feels real.
Something that could actually make me happy.
And nothing else has done that for me in a very long time.