Page 81 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
But, fuck me, I will never look at a camping cot the same way again.
Anyway, if I’d told her, she would have undoubtedlythrown me out, which would have left her with no one to look after the animals while she went to Chicago for the night. And without that help, she probably wouldn’t have gone. And that could have ruined her chances of the promotion she wants so badly.
So, yeah, I’ll try to convince myself that I stayed quiet partly for her benefit and not entirely because I’m a weak, terrible man.
It’s not only the sex, though. When I waved her off in the cab to the airport yesterday afternoon, I missed her before she even got to the end of the drive. It’s like my chest was attached to the car and it was hauling me along behind it.
And now I feel like an excited kid waiting for her to get home later tonight.
“Staying where?” Chase asks.
His question brings me back to reality, but without enough clarity to remember what we were talking about.
“What?” I ask.
“The donkey place,” he says. “Where is it?”
“Upstate New York. Hudson Valley.”
“But you’ve never built anything outside Boston in your life. Why would you want to buy land out there?” Leo looks like he’s about to call some professional medical help for me. “And even if, for some godforsaken reason, you did want to, why the fuck would youstaythere?”
“It’s kind of an accident.” How would I even begin to explain this? “Long story.”
Leo rolls his eyes. “Where’s Oliver? I only have fifteen minutes for this.”
Right on cue, Oliver’s cheery, disheveled face creates a fourth quarter to the screen and saves me from having to explain myabsurd situation.
His image wobbles as he walks across his apartment, the Empire State Building passing by in the background. If I ever had a project in New York City, I’d want to build it just like the one he lives in. It’s owned by an overseas client of mine who I persuaded to lend it to Oliver, rent free. And it’s fucking perfect.
“Sorry I’m a bit late, chaps.” Oliver flops onto his sofa and sets the phone down on something facing him.
And here we are, the four seemingly mismatched owners of the Boston Commoners soccer team that the sports world laughed at. Oh, the joy we take in proving them wrong.
“I was on a call with my publisher,” Oliver adds.
“Oh, yeah,” Chase says. “How’s the memoir coming along?”
Oliver sighs. “Well?—”
Leo emits a sharp cough. “Really short on time.”
“Okay, yes,” Chase says. “So we just need to come to an agreement on whether to accept this offer for Schumann or keep him.”
“He’s only got two years left in him. Three, tops,” Leo says. “Why would we keep him when the club isn’t exactly swimming in cash? We could do a lot with that money.”
“Sure.” Oliver pushes up the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt that has a hole in the shoulder and a stain on the front that looks like it might be tea. “But he’s like the Commoners’ talisman.”
“What do Hugo and Drew say?” I ask. Hugo, our head coach, and Drew, the general manager, are never short on opinions. And just because they’re engaged doesn’t mean those opinions are the same—it’s usually the opposite.
“Hugo says he gets why we’d want to make the sale,” Leo says.
“Yeah,” Oliver says. “But he also said if he was Schumann he wouldn’t want to be sold. He’d want to see out his days at the club he’s spent his entire career at.”
“And Hugo told me he’d be fine with whatever decision we make,” Chase adds, ever the diplomat.
Oliver relaxes back on the sofa. “Drew thinks we should keep him, and when his playing days are done, give him a coaching job at the youth academy. And I like that idea.”
So do I. “Might be the best of both worlds.”
