Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys, #2)(69)

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.

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.