Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2)(121)

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 f*cking 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 f*ck, 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 * 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 *,” 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, f*ck, 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.”