Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2)(120)
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 f*cked 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 f*cking good to play. I know my body. And I’m f*cking 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 f*cking 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.