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Scoring the Billionaire

By:Max Monroe

 To tears.

We cried a lot of you during the making of this book, both for personal and professional struggles and triumph.

If not for your salty hydration, we probably would have died a slow and  painful death. And then we'd have to be real ghost writers.

So thank you.

In the future, though, we'd really appreciate if you made a bigger effort to taste like wine-or vodka.

I'm Wes Lancaster.

The third "Billionaire Bad Boy," as it were.

I own the New York Mavericks, BAD Restaurant, am a silent investor in  several start-up companies across the United States, and yeah, I'm worth  three or four billion dollars.

Sounds like the same old story, right?

I'll admit, even to me-who'd rather not lump himself into the  Billionaire Bad Boy heap with the likes of Thatcher Kelly-the basics are  startlingly similar. But the difference between Thatch, Kline, and me  is that they keep avid track of each dollar-granted, their reasons vary  greatly from one another-and I've never been one to focus on the  numbers. I know a ballpark figure, and I know what that ballpark figure  means.

It means freedom.

Freedom to live my life as I please, spend money tastefully but often,  and enjoy all the things I appreciate with abandon. Women, cars, travel,  and time-each and every one can be mine on my terms.

I like the control. I like the escapism. I like being in charge of my own life.

Money may not buy happiness, but it definitely buys opportunity. For me,  that opportunity comes in many forms, the most notable being my ability  to live the dream of owning a National Football League team. My staff  knows by the level of my involvement-something they like to whisper  creative epithets about-that the desire to do so has absolutely nothing  to do with the money and position and everything to do with being a part  of the experience. I've overheard the very technical description of  "annoyingly present" more than once-and god-fucking-dammit, he's here  again; this is horseshit even more than that.

But now my interest has grown deeper, more complexly woven into the  staff-specifically Winnie Winslow, the new team physician-and not only  do I not stay away; I can't.

She's everything I don't want.

Strong-willed. Demanding. A mother to a young child.

But as it turns out, maybe the joke is on me. My brain says she'll ruin  everything, but my heart says she's everything I can't live without.

Normally my brain rules the day, making the important decisions and  keeping me from the certain agony a romantic entanglement would bring to  my life. But apparently, now, there's a new, beating, four-chambered  fuck-of-a-guy in charge.

He says this is the last time this book is about me because now, thanks to Winnie and Lexi Winslow, I'm a very big we.

This is us.

The halls were busy, staffers running from the cafeteria to meetings and  players making their way from the locker room to the weight room or the  field, and each person I passed acknowledged me with a nod.

I appreciated the effort, but I actually hated the attention. It meant I  had to watch myself, my expressions, my reactions-be whom they  expected, which sometimes wasn't who I was.

But just as I'd built the machine that was the current operations of  this team, I'd constructed my reputation all on my own. Stoic.  Unemotional. Unswayable, unflappable, hard-to-rile Wes Lancaster.

It scared me how often my insides were the exact opposite-rolling  turmoil that kept the contents of my stomach only seconds away from  making an appearance.

My relationship with God was tenuous and largely lacking in effort on my  part, but I'd still lost count of how many times I'd thanked him for  the power of perception and strong esophageal control.

Overhead, the lights flickered and hissed as one of the bulbs strained  to avoid the end of its life. I made a mental note to notify maintenance  as soon as I finished my rounds.

Much like every other team in the league, we operated on a schedule,  with certain players, be it special teams, skill positions, defensive  linemen, etcetera going different places at different times. When the  cafeteria closed down the breakfast service in an hour, everyone on the  team would be somewhere-a meeting, a final practice, at weight lifting,  or getting medical advisement or attention. Wednesdays on travel weeks  needed to run even more smoothly than any other day, as the whole team  would need to be out and ready in a timely fashion so that they could  prepare for travel tomorrow.         



And this week, we were headed to Miami. Hot, sunny,  skimpy-clothes-inducing Miami. Please, fuck, let there be some sort of  bikini-wearing opportunity for Winnie Winslow, my dick chimed in with a  wink and an overly enthusiastic nod before my brain could stop it.


I'd hired her as the team physician, but she'd just as quickly become my  obsession, my weakness, and my distraction. Witty, thrilling exchanges  laced with an edge of anger I couldn't stop picturing in the bedroom  took up way too much space in my mind for the amount of interaction we'd  had. Thrown together in mostly professional circumstances, we hadn't so  much as touched for the first few weeks of our erotic dance of  torturous teasing. Even now, we were still in the infancy of intimacy, a  fledgling friendship that hovered on the edge of acquaintances.

In fact, the most contact we'd had was the soft slip of her hand in mine  during Thatch and Cassie's shotgun nuptials a few weeks ago. But  innocent or not, ever since, I'd become irrationally fixated on the  drive to once again feel her skin on mine. It was unnatural at best, but  troubling was more likely as I'd involuntarily begun to completely  avoid the company of other women.

I'd actually tried to force it for the first week after our return, but  as that time bled into this, and the days at work got longer and longer,  my body stopped being cooperative.

That's right. Without the incentive of Winnie's touch, my dick has  stopped responding. And yes, my little problem did make itself known in  the most embarrassing way possible, at the very worst time. The only  thing I have to be thankful for is that the particular woman had made my  acquaintance before and knew it was an entirely new problem. Of course,  I went home to my hand and a most explicitly detailed fantasy of Winnie  Winslow, and the fucker reacted to that just fine.

"Trust me," I heard Winnie say as I rounded the corner into the hall  that led directly to our training room. Open call for players with  injuries or medical needs opened up at six a.m., which was nearly an  hour ago. An hour's worth of restraint felt like it took Herculean  effort, but the camel's back had finally buckled-I'd run out of  control … and metaphors.

I had to see her. That rough but sweet voice. The fervor in her every  comment. I wanted the feeling it gave me when she directed all of it at  me.

Luckily, touching base in any and all meetings and locations was normal  for me, the "helicopter boss," so the only one who would know what a  fool I was would be me.

Despite the internal embarrassment of losing the battle with myself to  stay away, my step got decidedly peppier. If Thatch had paid witness,  comments would have been made, and I would have communicated both  verbally and otherwise that he should fuck right off. But he wasn't, and  all that separated me from looking Winnie dead in her heated eyes was  the rest of this stupid hallway.

"I know more about you than I've ever wanted to know, Martinez," Winnie  went on, her commanding voice carrying easily down the empty hall.  "Google is altogether way too informative."

"I think she's saying she's seen your dick, Teen. And by the sound of  it, I'm thinking your nickname isn't the only thing that's teeny," a  jovial, young male voice said.

Commotion rang out, hoots and hollers and overall mayhem echoing out the door and down the hall to my ears.

"Whoa," Winnie said loudly through a laugh. "Pick up your pants, Teen. I  didn't see your penis, I don't want to see your penis, goddammit, put  away your penis."

The room sounded rowdy with all the answering chuckles, and I found  myself quickening my already brisk steps in order to make it to the end  of the hall a little faster.

"Penis, Doc?" I heard one of the other guys ask. "That's very clinical."

I paused just outside the door as she responded. "That's right.  Clinical. The only reason I'll be looking at your penis is if you break  it during a game. A penis is only a dick or a cock if I'm seeing it  socially."

"The way you say that makes my penis feel very sociable, Dr. Winslow,"  Mitchell teased, and the other guys muttered and mumbled their  agreement.         



"Sorry, Cam," Winnie clucked with a stern take on playful. "My calendar's all booked up."

Despite all reason, I smiled as I stepped into the room and discovered  about half a dozen more players than I was expecting. Evidently, half of  them knew better than to sexually goad their physician just because she  was a woman. With some internal coaxing, I forced my expression to  something gloomier.