Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2) (54 page)

“Warm-ups, I think.”

“Bullshit. He probably did something at practice Friday but managed to sneak it under our radar. I’ll be there in a minute.” I hung up the phone and strode for the locker room.

The second security opened the doors and gestured me through, the loud and boisterous noises of a male locker room getting ready for a big game hit me like a wave. The sights and sounds and smells were pretty much what most would imagine, and I did my best to keep my eyes focused on the one player I needed to see. I wasn’t there to check out bare asses or spot swinging dicks.

Although, the bare asses were also just as good as most would imagine.

As I headed toward Mitchell’s spot, I noted he was sitting down on the bench in front of his locker, his elbows resting on his knees, and his gaze locked on the floor.

“Great,” Mitchell muttered when the tips of my heels came into his view. He looked up to meet my eyes and sighed. “Eddie is overreacting. I’m good to play, Doc.”

I shook my head. “You pulled your hamstring again. You’re not good to play.”

“I’m fucking good to play. I know my body. And I’m fucking fine. So cool it with this bullshit. I don’t need a mother.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the “I don’t need a mother” crap. I also fought the urge to respond with,
Believe me, I don’t want to be your mother. I just want you to stop acting like a fucking idiot.

He took my pregnant pause as me relenting. “So, run along now,” he added, shooing me away with a flick of his wrist.

Yes, he had just
shooed
me away. I felt my claws unsheathe.

I’d learned pretty quickly that my players
really
didn’t like being told they couldn’t play. And I understood it. I was sympathetic to their plight as a professional athlete. The pay might have been phenomenal, but it wasn’t an easy job. Every time they stepped onto the field, they had to push their bodies as hard as they possibly could with the knowledge that they could push themselves too far. They could face an injury that could end their season, or even worse, their career.

With that being said, I could only stay sympathetic to a point. It was my job to know when they weren’t healthy enough to play. But my job did
not
entail tolerating being disrespected or dealing with mouthy bullshit.

Unfortunately for me, some of these men pictured me as some little woman who could be pushed around. Not all, but definitely some. And unfortunately for them, I wasn’t a pushover. I grew up with four loudmouthed older brothers, so when it came to dealing with insolent men, I had no qualms. Hell, I quite enjoyed putting them in their place, especially when they were insulting my intelligence as a physician.

I didn’t graduate at the top of my class from Yale Med School and work under one of the most well-respected orthopedic surgeons in the country because I wasn’t good at my job. I didn’t run one of the busiest Emergency Departments in the country because I wasn’t good at my job. I also didn’t get hired by the Mavericks because I wasn’t good at my job.

I was real fucking good at my job, and I knew medicine,
especially
orthopedic medicine.

Cameron Mitchell’s injury wasn’t shocking. Most NFL players with hamstring injuries returned to the field before they were fully healed, which was why over sixteen percent of those players ended up reinjuring themselves. Factor in Mitchell’s obstinacy and unwillingness to rest, and it wasn’t a surprise he was back to square one.

But since Mitchell was being a bit of a dick, I was going to have to handle this situation a little differently than I normally would.

“So you’re good?” I asked, even though I knew he wasn’t.

He glanced up at me with an annoyed expression. “Yep. That’s what I said.”

“Oh, okay. That’s great to hear.”

As Mitchell started to lace up his cleats, I leaned forward and gripped his meaty thigh with both hands. I dug my fingers into the tight muscle and immediately had the proof of his injury beneath my fingertips.

“What the fuck, Doc?” He tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip and watched him school his face into a neutral expression.

“Figured I might as well check the hamstring since I’m here,” I said sweetly. “You don’t mind, right? I mean, it’s not like it’s hurting or anything.”

He shook his head, but he remained silent, mouth stretched tight in a firm line.

“Perfect.” I grinned. “This will only take a minute.”

My fingers moved across the muscle, noting the tightness and swelling of the tendon. Yeah, he had definitely strained his hamstring. A faint bruise already peppered the top of his skin, and in a few more hours, it’d be so pronounced that the fans in the nosebleed seats wouldn’t miss it.

“No pain?” I asked, but I knew what I was doing was likely causing him some serious pain. Injuring him further? No. But making his life a living hell? Definitely yes.

He shook his head again, but his jaw clenched ever so slightly at the same time.

I tightened my grip even more and noted the boisterous sounds of the locker room grew silent. “Still no pain?”

“No. Pain,” he answered, but he couldn’t stop himself from wincing.

No pain, my ass.

“You’re still
good?”
I pushed my fingers a little harder into his skin.

A normal someone with a pulled hamstring would have been screeching in pain, but Mitchell was a hard-ass. The man could tolerate more than the average person. It’s why he was a great athlete. And his ability and contribution to this team was exactly why I wasn’t going to let him play. He needed to rest his leg. He needed to get healthy again, or else his next game would probably be his last.

We stared at one another for a long moment, his face hard as stone while my fingers continued their assault, my gaze unwavering in its patient challenge.

Until, finally, he broke.

“Fuck,” he grimaced. “Fine. Fucking fine.” It was all he said, and I didn’t push further. I wasn’t going to be an asshole and make him say the words.

As I let go of Mitchell’s leg, Eddie came over to stand beside me. “Not good?” he asked.

“I’m not clearing him to play today. I want an MRI on his leg and get him in an ice bath,” I directed. “We’ll reassess our game plan with his injury once we get the results back.”

Mitchell stared down at the floor, and I patted his broad shoulder. “I’m not doing this to be an asshole,” I whispered for his ears only. “I’m doing this because I want you back on that field, and I want you to finish the season knowing you can look forward to future seasons.”

He nodded but didn’t meet my eyes.

“Dayum, Doc. You’re a bit of a ballbuster,” Owens said as he replaced Eddie’s vacated spot beside me. He was bigger than a house and one of the offensive lineman on the team.

I glanced over at him and smirked. “Yeah, you should remember that the next time you clean the vending machine out of my favorite peanut butter M&Ms.”

He grinned and rubbed both hands down his rotund belly. “You know I gotta keep my figure in tip-top shape.”

“You need to switch out those M&Ms for protein,” I teased. “I mean, fuck, at least switch to Snickers.”

Owens grinned and then his eyes moved toward Mitchell. “You’re really not playing today, Mitch?”

“Nope.” Mitchell glanced up and nodded toward me. “Dr. Ballbuster won’t clear me.”

His lips turned up ever so slightly into a faint smile, and I grinned back.

Eddie kneeled beside Mitchell with his bag of supplies. “Just gonna wrap you up real quick,” he said as he got to work.

Commotion filtered in from the front of the locker room, followed by the words, “You’ve got to be shitting me. You’re not clearing Mitchell?”

I didn’t even turn around to answer whoever was rudely questioning my judgment. “No, I’m not
shitting you
,” I responded and watched Eddie cover Mitchell’s leg in an ACE wrap. “He can’t play if he wants to be able to actually finish the season.”

“How long?” the irritated voice asked from behind me.

“Until his hamstring is strong enough to avoid reinjury,” I answered.

“He needs an MRI, and for fuck’s sake, get his ass in an ice bath.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo with a hamstring injury, so if you don’t mind,
I’ll
be in charge of treating
my
patient,” I responded as I turned on my heels to face whoever the fuck thought they knew more about medicine than I did.

I came face-to-face with a brilliant pair of hazel eyes, a handsome face, and a tall, muscular frame clad in a sharp suit and tie. And Lord Almighty, he was
wearing
that suit.

He stared back at me, his body visibly bristling in irritation.

I knew that face. I’d never personally met that face, but I sure as hell knew that face.

Well,
shit
. It was Wes Lancaster, owner of the Mavericks and
my
boss.

Since I hadn’t signed on to the organization until late in the preseason, and Wes Lancaster spent a hell of a lot of time on the road, this was the first time I was officially meeting him in person. We’d had a brief phone chat when he welcomed me to the team, but that conversation lasted all of two minutes.

I had a feeling this was about to be the epitome of an awkward introduction.

He stopped right in front of me and briefly glanced down at Mitchell before his eyes met mine again. “You’re making him sit out before you get MRI results?” he questioned with a challenge in his voice.

It pissed me off. He might be the owner—who also happened to be insanely good-looking—but he’d hired me to do a job, so he needed to back off and let me do it.

Remorseless, I continued to look him directly in the eye. “I don’t need the MRI to know he’s injured. I need the MRI to know just
how
injured and how long of a recovery we’re going to be dealing with.”

He tilted his head to the side, and a cocky smirk graced his lips. “Do you even know who I am?”

I had the urge to smack him.

Or violently kiss that cocky smirk straight off his face.

No. I definitely just wanted to smack him. I didn’t care how rich or unbelievingly good-looking he was, I had
zero
desire to kiss a man who provided this shitty of a first impression.

Do you even know who I am?
I mean, really? Was this guy serious?

He sounded like a total prick. Well, a really hot prick. I felt like the physical version of my perfect man had been set right in front of me, and then he’d opened his mouth and shit all over the fantasy.

“Yeah. Your face is plastered down every hallway in this stadium,” I answered even though it was a bit of an exaggeration. There were maybe two pictures of Wes Lancaster in the entire Mavericks’ facility, but I couldn’t stop myself from razzing his ego.

I held out my hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Lancaster. I’m Dr. Winnie Winslow, and I take my job of making sure I don’t let your players go on the field if they’re not one hundred percent very seriously.”

He took my offered hand, and the second his warm palm touched mine, I felt like lightning shot through the ceiling and zapped straight into my chest.

What in the hell kind of visceral reaction was that?

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Winslow,” he said and shook my hand, but honestly, his voice sounded like I was the very last person he wanted to be touching in that moment. “And just call me Wes.” His eyes searched mine for the answer to some unknown question.

I couldn’t get a good read on him. He looked cocky and amused one minute and then irritated and like he couldn’t stand the sight of me the next. I felt off-balance from merely being in his presence.

“Okay, Wes. And please, just call me Winnie.”

Our eyes stayed locked on one another until Eddie stood from his kneeling position and cleared his throat.

It was only then that I realized we were still shaking hands.

Why were we still shaking hands?

Surprised, we both let go at the same time and put distance between each another, but our eye contact never wavered. It felt like we were both trying to figure the other out, and I didn’t even really understand why.

Wes blinked and averted his eyes from mine. His jaw clenched, and he muttered an excuse about having to check on something and strode out of the locker room like someone had lit his ass on fire.

All the while, I remained frozen in my spot—far longer than would’ve been considered normal.

What in the hell just happened?