Trapped With The Maverick Millionaire

He’d been dreaming of Rory, something he hadn’t done in years, Mac realized as he surfaced out of a pain-saturated sleep. She’d been sitting cross-legged on his bed, her silver-gray eyes dancing. Wide smile, firm breasts, golden-brown hair that was so long, he remembered, that it flirted with her butt...five foot three of petite perfection.

In his dream he’d been French-kissing her and it had felt...man...amazing! Slow, hot, sexy—what a kiss should really be. Okay, he’d had far too many drugs if he was obsessing about a girl he’d wanted to kiss a lifetime ago. Mac shoved his left hand through his hair before pushing himself up using the same hand, trying but failing to ignore the slamming pain in his other arm as he moved.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Half lying, half sitting, he closed his eyes and fought the nausea gathering in his throat. Dimly aware of people entering his private hospital room, he fought the pain, pushed down the nausea and concentrated on those silver eyes he’d seen in his dream. The way her soft lips felt under his...

He had been dreaming, right?

“Do you need something for the pain, Mr. McCaskill?”

Mac jerked fully awake and looked into the concerned face of a guy a few years younger than him.

“I’m Troy Hunter, your nurse,” he said. “So, some meds? You’re due.”

“Hell yes,” Mac muttered. He usually hated drugs but he slowly rolled onto his good side, presenting his butt to be jabbed as Kade and Quinn walked into the room. “Hey, guys.”

Troy glanced at Mac’s visitors with his mouth dropped open, looking like any other fan did when the three of them were together...awestruck.

Tall and rock solid, in both stature and personality, Mac wasn’t surprised to see Kade and Quinn and so soon after his surgery. They were his friends, his onetime roommates, his colleagues...his family. They were, in every way that counted, his brothers.

After giving him the injection, Troy pulled up Mac’s shorts and stood back to look at him, his face and tone utterly professional. “Let’s get you sorted out. I need to do my boring nurse stuff and then I’ll leave you to talk.” He looked more closely at Mac. “You look uncomfortable.”

Mac nodded. He was half lying and half sitting but the thought of moving made him break out in a cold sweat. “Yeah, I am.”

“I can remedy that.” Troy, with surprising ease and gentleness for a man who was six-three and solid, maneuvered Mac into a position he could live with. While Troy wound a blood pressure cuff around Mac’s arm, Kade sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed, his expression serious.

“We would appreciate your discretion as to Mac’s condition,” he told Troy. That voice, not often employed, usually had sponsors, players and random citizens scattering.

Troy, to his credit, didn’t look intimidated. “I don’t talk about my patients. Ever.”

Kade stared at Troy for a long time before nodding once. “Thank you.”

They waited in silence until Troy left the room and then Kade turned to him and let out a stream of profanity.

Here it comes, Mac thought, resigned.

“What were you thinking, trying to move that fridge yourself? One call and one of us would’ve been there to help you!”

Mac shrugged. “It wasn’t that heavy. It started to fall and I tried to catch it.”

“Why the hell can’t you just ask for help?” Quinn demanded. “It’s serious, Mac, career-ending serious.”

Mac felt the blood in his face drain away. When he could speak, he pushed the words out between dry lips. “That bad, huh?”

Kade looked as white as Mac imagined himself to be. “That bad.”

“Physiotherapy?” Mac demanded.

“An outside chance at best,” Quinn answered him. He didn’t sugarcoat his words, and Mac appreciated it. He needed the truth.

Kade spoke again. “We’ve found someone to work with you. She’s reputed to be the best at sports rehabilitation injuries.”

Neither of his friends met his eyes, and his heart sank to his toes. He knew that look, knew that he wouldn’t like what was coming next.

“Who? Nurse Ratched?” he joked.

“Rory Kydd,” Kade told him, his face impassive.

“Rory? What?” he croaked, not liking the frantic note in his voice. It was bad enough seeing Rory in his dreams but being her patient would mean hitting the seventh level of hell.

There was a reason why he never thought of her, why he’d obliterated that day from his memory. He’d publicly humiliated himself and the world had seen him at his worst. Rory’d had a front-row seat to the behind-the-scenes action.

Saying what he had on that open mic had been bad enough but almost kissing his about-to-be ex’s sister was unforgiveable. At the time he’d been thinking of Rory a lot, had been, strangely, attracted to Shay’s petite but feisty younger sister. But he should never have caged her in, tempting them both. He knew better than to act on those kinds of feelings, even if his relationship with Shay had been sliding downhill.

His mother’s many messy affairs had taught him to keep his own liaisons clean, to remove himself from one situation before jumping into another. He’d forgotten those lessons the moment Rory looked at him with her wide, lust-filled eyes. His big brain shut down as his little brain perked up...

In the months afterward he hadn’t missed Shay—too needy, too insecure—but he had missed talking to, teasing, laughing with Rory. She’d been, before he mucked it up, his first real female friend.

That day he’d also unwittingly created a media superstorm and a public persona for himself. He’d been branded a player, a party-hard, commitment-phobic prick whose two objectives in life were to play with a puck and to chase skirts.

They had it half right...

Yes, he liked the occasional party and was commitment-phobic. Yes, he loved to play with a puck and yeah, he had sex, but not as much or with as many woman as was suggested in the tabloids. These days he was a great deal more discriminating about who he took into his bed, and it had been a couple of months since he’d been laid.

He looked down at his arm and scowled. It seemed like it would be a few more.

Quinn gripped the railing at the end of the bed with his massive hands. “Rory is the best and God knows you need the best. We need her because everything we’ve worked toward for the past five years is about to slip from our fingers because you were too pigheaded to ask for help!”

Kade frowned at their hotheaded friend. “Take it easy, Quinn. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose.”

No, but it was his fault. Mac tipped his head up to look at the ceiling. He’d failed again today, failed his team, his friends, his future.

And it looked like, once again, Rory would be there to witness it.

There had to be another option. “Find someone else! Anyone else!”

“Don’t be a moron!” Quinn told him.

Kade, always the voice of reason, stepped between them before they started to yell. “You’ll work with her while we do damage control on our end.”

Mac rested his head on his pillow, feeling the sedative effects of whatever the nurse had stuck in him. Ignoring the approaching grogginess, he sucked in some deep breaths and forced his brain to work.

Dammit, why did Vernon Hasselback have to die before they’d concluded the deal they’d all been discussing for the past decade? It was a simple plan: when the time was right he and Kade and Quinn would buy the franchise from Vernon. They’d been working toward this since they were all rookie players and they’d hammered out a detailed plan to raise the cash, which included using their player fees and endorsement money to invest in business opportunities to fund their future purchase of the franchise. The strategy had worked well. Within a decade they had a rock-solid asset base and were, by anyone’s standards, ridiculously wealthy. Money wasn’t an issue. They could buy the franchise without breaking much of a sweat. But to take the team and its brand to the next level they needed a partner who brought certain skills to the table. Someone who had bigger and better connections in all facets of the media, who could open the doors to mega-sponsorship deals, who had merchandising experience.

Unfortunately, because Vernon died in the bed of his latest mistress, his widow and the beneficiary of his entire estate wasn’t inclined to honor his wishes about passing the mantle on to the three of them. Myra wanted to sell the franchise to a Russian billionaire who’d acquired six sports teams in the past two years and was rebranding them to be generic, cardboard cutouts of the teams they once were and mouthpieces for his bland corporation. Kade had convinced Myra to give them some time but they knew she was impulsive and impatient. She would use any setback as an excuse to sell the franchise out from under them, and Mac’s injury was a very big setback.

“No one can know how badly I’m injured.”