Banking Her (A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella)(38)

My eyes moved back to Winnie and the white turf of the sideline under her feet. Thanks to a long-standing relationship with the president of Arizona State University, we had a place to come just outside of Phoenix, in Tempe, that wasn’t the opposition’s territory to run through our plays last minute—to make sure they were second nature to each and every guy on the field.

Normally, I tried to stay removed—it wasn’t my job to coach, no matter how bad I wanted to—so I kept to a seat up in the bleachers.

But as much as I hated to admit it, the call of Winnie was strong. I found myself wanting to go stand on the sideline just to see if I could catch a whiff of her, and goddamn, that was fucking dangerous.

Thankfully, the ringing of my phone put my ass—that was a solid inch in the air—back on my seat.

After strongly considering sending him to voicemail, I worried that maybe something was wrong with Cassie and he needed me to do something about it. And holy hell, I’d feel like an asshole if I ignored a call like that.

I pushed the green phone icon to accept, and he started talking before I could say anything in greeting.

“I need access to the field right after the game,” Thatch said, and I groaned.

“Could you maybe, every once in a while, call me when you don’t want something that’s nearly impossible?”

“This isn’t nearly impossible,” he insisted, a hint of desperation in his normally playful voice.

“This isn’t a home game. This isn’t my stadium, in case you’ve forgotten. My word doesn’t rule. I can’t just grant you access. I have to call Hank Bastian and ask him because it’s his stadium. His field. His access to grant.”

“Great.”

“Great?”

“Yeah,” he responded without missing a beat. “You obviously know how to make it happen, so do that.”

“It’s not that simple,” I told him.

“Wes. Please. I want to get married on the field tomorrow, after the game. I’ve got everything ready. Cassie’s parents are coming last minute under the pretense of watching Sean play, and I’m going to make her my wife. I need access to that field. I’m begging you. Please.”

“Okay,” I agreed. There really wasn’t any other option.

“Thank God,” Thatch exhaled, his relief so thick I could feel it coating my skin and settling deep into my gut. And despite my own feelings about marriage and kids, I couldn’t stop my smile.

“Text me when you have confirmation about the field, and, yeah, yeah, I know I’m a pain in your ass, but the sooner the better. I’m really counting on it, and I have a few things to do after I get it. Plus, I’ve got Cassie on my ass since she found out I’m here, and I have very limited time to get all of this shit done.”

“You’re here?” I asked, and as soon as I did, I knew it was a dumb question.

“Uh, yeah. Hence the need for the field.”

The way he said it had me narrowing my eyes. “Why do I get the feeling there’s way more to this than you’re telling me?”

“Because there is. A whole fuck of a lot that I’m a little embarrassed to admit and in no way have time to explain right now. But, because I’m friends with people like Kline, I’m sure you’ll hear the full story soon enough.”

“Okay, but—”

He cut me off. “Gotta go. Text me.”

Shaking my head, I pulled the phone away from my ear and got up from my seat immediately. But this time, it wasn’t for a blond-headed woman who was off-fucking-limits.

Apparently, I had to talk to Hank Bastian.





“Nice game tonight, Bailey.” I high-fived Quinn, the Mavericks’ quarterback, on his way back into the locker room.

“Thanks, Dr. Double U.” All of the players called me different things, from Winnie the Pooh to Winslow to Dr. W., but Quinn Bailey was a sweet Southern boy with a thicker accent than most, and the way he said my name always made me laugh. He grinned and filed down the tunnel with the rest of the team.

The Mavericks had handled Phoenix with ease, pulling out another away game win with four touchdowns and one field goal to come out ahead, 31-10. If they kept playing like this, their hopes of getting into the play-offs, and earning themselves a first-round bye, were a very real possibility.

As I passed Wes, who was walking in the opposite direction and back toward the field, he grabbed my wrist and pulled us both to a stop. “Aren’t you coming?” We both looked down at his hand wrapped around me in surprise, and my heart beat a little faster.

Finally meeting his eyes, I tilted my head in confusion. “Coming where?”