Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 2)

The bustling sounds of the stadium filled my ears as I strode through the long hallway that led to the tunnel to walk out onto the field. Today marked the opening game for the New York Mavericks, and I was excited to see the guys get out onto the field and kick some ass.

My heels tip-tapped across the concrete as I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check for what had to be a million text messages in my group chat with Georgia and Cassie.

Georgia: Go Mavericks! Good luck today, Win!

Cassie: Ditto on what G said. How’s my brother? Did he look okay during warm-ups? How’s his knee? Did he say anything about it?

Georgia: SEAN IS FINE, Cass. Stop bugging her about it for the millionth time today.

Cassie: Stop texting me when you’re sitting right next to me.

Georgia: You totally fucked Thatch in the owner’s suite bathroom.

Cassie: I know I did. I was there.

Georgia: What’s going on with you? You feeling okay?

Georgia: Hello? Earth to Cassie.

Georgia: Are

Georgia: You

Georgia: Okay

The convo went on for miles. And I couldn’t help but smile at their ridiculousness. Georgia and Cassie were awesome. After I had met them at lunch with Will, they had taken it upon themselves to offer their friendship. Girls’ nights, coffee dates, lunches at Georgia’s house—all of it had become a common occurrence in my life.

I kept reading, wondering in amusement if the texts would ever end.

Cassie: I’d be a lot better if you stopped texting me.

Georgia: Sheesh, for a woman who just screamed her way through an orgasm, you’re kind of testy today.

Cassie: I’m ignoring you.

Georgia: Gnome you’re not.

Cassie: Stop. It.

Georgia: Gnome what your problem is?

Cassie: You. You are my problem.

Georgia: Gnome I’m not.

I laughed when I finally reached the last text that had been sent a mere two minutes ago and typed out a quick message.

Me: Thanks, guys! And Sean is good to go, Cass. You have nothing to worry about. Your brother is ready.

Georgia: YAY! See, Cassie? I told you!

Cassie: Thanks, Win.

Cassie: Stop texting me, Wheorgie.

Georgia: Never.

Me: Are you guys watching from the Owner’s Suite?

Cassie: Yes. And you’re coming out for drinks with us after. We will only take YES as an answer.

Me: YES. I’ve got a sitter. I need a night out.

Georgia: WOOOHOOOOO!

Cassie: (She literally just shouted that into my ear as she was texting it to you.) And it should be noted that I’m more than ready to get my drink on.

Me: Hahahaha

Me: Perfect. I’ll meet up with you guys after the game, then.

My phone vibrated in my hands, and I answered on the second ring. “Dr. Winslow.”

“Where are you?” Eddie, one of the team trainers, asked. His voice reeked of concern.

“Heading toward the field to make sure our standby paramedics arrived. What’s wrong?”

“I need you in the locker room.”

I stopped in my tracks. That didn’t sound good. “Why?”

“Mitchell’s hurt.”

I sighed. “Let me guess, left hamstring.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he reinjured it.”

“Goddammit.” I closed my eyes and inhaled a frustrated breath through my nose. “I knew he wasn’t ready for those last two preseason games.” I turned around on my heel and headed back down the long tunnel. “How’d he do it?”

“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.