Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2)(122)

His lips turned up ever so slightly into a faint smile, and I grinned back.

Eddie kneeled beside Mitchell with his bag of supplies. “Just gonna wrap you up real quick,” he said as he got to work.

Commotion filtered in from the front of the locker room, followed by the words, “You’ve got to be shitting me. You’re not clearing Mitchell?”

I didn’t even turn around to answer whoever was rudely questioning my judgment. “No, I’m not shitting you,” I responded and watched Eddie cover Mitchell’s leg in an ACE wrap. “He can’t play if he wants to be able to actually finish the season.”

“How long?” the irritated voice asked from behind me.

“Until his hamstring is strong enough to avoid reinjury,” I answered.

“He needs an MRI, and for f*ck’s sake, get his ass in an ice bath.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo with a hamstring injury, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be in charge of treating my patient,” I responded as I turned on my heels to face whoever the f*ck thought they knew more about medicine than I did.

I came face-to-face with a brilliant pair of hazel eyes, a handsome face, and a tall, muscular frame clad in a sharp suit and tie. And Lord Almighty, he was wearing that suit.

He stared back at me, his body visibly bristling in irritation.

I knew that face. I’d never personally met that face, but I sure as hell knew that face.

Well, shit. It was Wes Lancaster, owner of the Mavericks and my boss.

Since I hadn’t signed on to the organization until late in the preseason, and Wes Lancaster spent a hell of a lot of time on the road, this was the first time I was officially meeting him in person. We’d had a brief phone chat when he welcomed me to the team, but that conversation lasted all of two minutes.

I had a feeling this was about to be the epitome of an awkward introduction.

He stopped right in front of me and briefly glanced down at Mitchell before his eyes met mine again. “You’re making him sit out before you get MRI results?” he questioned with a challenge in his voice.

It pissed me off. He might be the owner—who also happened to be insanely good-looking—but he’d hired me to do a job, so he needed to back off and let me do it.

Remorseless, I continued to look him directly in the eye. “I don’t need the MRI to know he’s injured. I need the MRI to know just how injured and how long of a recovery we’re going to be dealing with.”

He tilted his head to the side, and a cocky smirk graced his lips. “Do you even know who I am?”

I had the urge to smack him.

Or violently kiss that cocky smirk straight off his face.

No. I definitely just wanted to smack him. I didn’t care how rich or unbelievingly good-looking he was, I had zero desire to kiss a man who provided this shitty of a first impression.

Do you even know who I am? I mean, really? Was this guy serious?

He sounded like a total prick. Well, a really hot prick. I felt like the physical version of my perfect man had been set right in front of me, and then he’d opened his mouth and shit all over the fantasy.

“Yeah. Your face is plastered down every hallway in this stadium,” I answered even though it was a bit of an exaggeration. There were maybe two pictures of Wes Lancaster in the entire Mavericks’ facility, but I couldn’t stop myself from razzing his ego.

I held out my hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Lancaster. I’m Dr. Winnie Winslow, and I take my job of making sure I don’t let your players go on the field if they’re not one hundred percent very seriously.”

He took my offered hand, and the second his warm palm touched mine, I felt like lightning shot through the ceiling and zapped straight into my chest.

What in the hell kind of visceral reaction was that?

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Winslow,” he said and shook my hand, but honestly, his voice sounded like I was the very last person he wanted to be touching in that moment. “And just call me Wes.” His eyes searched mine for the answer to some unknown question.

I couldn’t get a good read on him. He looked cocky and amused one minute and then irritated and like he couldn’t stand the sight of me the next. I felt off-balance from merely being in his presence.

“Okay, Wes. And please, just call me Winnie.”

Our eyes stayed locked on one another until Eddie stood from his kneeling position and cleared his throat.

It was only then that I realized we were still shaking hands.

Why were we still shaking hands?

Surprised, we both let go at the same time and put distance between each another, but our eye contact never wavered. It felt like we were both trying to figure the other out, and I didn’t even really understand why.

Wes blinked and averted his eyes from mine. His jaw clenched, and he muttered an excuse about having to check on something and strode out of the locker room like someone had lit his ass on fire.

All the while, I remained frozen in my spot—far longer than would’ve been considered normal.

What in the hell just happened?





Sound splintered the air as I slammed the door to the suite shut behind me and stalked to the large window overlooking the field.

“Whoa. What’s wrong?” Kline asked.

Pyrotechnics sparkled and flashed as the team ran out of the tunnel, and the base noise level in the stadium lifted to a roar. It was a sound I lived for, especially now, during the first game of the season. But nothing was going according to plan, and I wasn’t in control of any of it.