of course it was, but she knew how much the Mavericks meant to him. There had been many reports about the bond he shared with his mentor, the now dead owner of the team. The cheating dead owner of the Mavericks—dying in his mistress’s bed.
Don’t think about that, she told herself. With her history of a having a serial cheater for a father, it was a sure way to get her blood pressure spiking.
She had to disregard the emotion around this decision, try to forget he was attempting to save his team, his friends’ jobs and the traditions of the Mavericks, which were an essential part of the city’s identity. She had to look at his injury, his need and his right to treatment. If this were any other sportsman and not Mac, would she be trying to help him? Yeah, she would.
And really, if she didn’t help Mac, Troy might never speak to her again.
She nodded reluctantly. “Okay. I’ll help you, as much as I can.”
Mac, to her surprise, didn’t look jubilant or excited. He just looked relieved and wiped out. “Thank you,” he quietly said.
Rory turned to Kade. “You need to contact my office, sign a formal contract with my employers.”
Kade grimaced. “Yeah, that’s the other thing...we’d like to cut out the middleman.”
Rory lifted up her hands in frustration. Was nothing going to be simple today? “What does that mean?”
Kade jerked his head in Mac’s direction and Rory saw that his head was back against his pillow and his eyes were closed. “Let’s carry on this discussion outside and I’ll fill you in.”
“Why do I know that you’re about to complicate my life even further?” Rory demanded when they were standing in the passage outside Mac’s room.
“Because you are, obviously, a very smart woman,” Kade said, placing a large hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go get some coffee and we’ll sort this mess out.”
That sounded like an excellent idea since she desperately needed a cup of liquid sanity.
Rory walked into the diner situated around the corner from St. Catherine’s Hospital and scanned the tables, looking for her best friend. It had only been an hour since Kade had laid out his terms, and she needed Troy to talk her off the ledge...
Dressed in skinny jeans and a strappy white crop top, she ignored the compliments coming from a table of construction workers on her left. She waved at Troy and smiled at grumbles behind her when they saw her breakfast companion—huge, sexy and, not that they’d ever realize it, gay. With his blond hair, chiseled jaw and hot bod, he had guys—and girls—falling over him and had the social life of a boy band member.
Unlike her who, according to Mr. Popular, partied like a nun.
Troy stood up as she approached and she reached up to place a kiss on his cheek. He’d changed out of his uniform into jeans and a T-shirt but he still looked stressed.
“Rough night? Is Mac being a pain in your backside?” she asked him.
“He’s not a problem at all. I was at the home until late. My mom had a bad episode.”
Rory sent him a sympathetic look. Troy’s mom suffered from dementia and most of his cash went to funding the nursing home he’d put her into. Unfortunately the home wasn’t great, but it was the best he could afford.
Rory had decided a long time ago that when she opened her clinic Troy would be her first hire, at a salary that would enable him to move his mom out of that place into a nicer home. Hopefully, if they did well, he could also move out of his horrible apartment and buy a decent car. “Sorry, honey.”
Troy shrugged as they sat down on opposite sides of the table. “You look as frazzled as I do. What’s up?”
“So much,” Rory replied. “Let’s order and I’ll tell you a story.” She pushed the folder she’d been carrying toward Troy. “Look at this.”
After they ordered, Rory tapped the file with her index finger. “Read.”
“Mark McCaskill?” Troy looked at the label. “Why do you have Open Mac’s file?”
Rory pulled a face as the waitress poured them coffee. She’d always loathed that nickname since it was a play on the microphone incident from so long ago, something she didn’t need to be constantly reminded of. Then again, his other nickname, PD—short for Panty Dropper—was even worse. “If you’re not going to read it then fill me in on all the gossip about him.”
Troy frowned. “Why?”
“I’ll explain.” She waved her hand. “Go. Center and captain of the Vancouver Mavericks hockey team. Incredible player, one of the very best. Dates a variety of women. What else?”
Troy rested his forearms on the table, his face pensive. “Well, he’s spokesperson for various campaigns, epilepsy being one of them. He sits on the boards of a few charities, mostly relating to children. He’s also, thanks to investing in bars, restaurants and food trucks, one of the wealthiest bachelors in town. He’s also supremely haawwwt,” Troy added. “And surprisingly nice, even though I know how stressed he must be wondering if this injury will keep him out for the season.”
Mac—nice? Yeah, sure.
Troy flicked the file open and flipped through the pile of papers. “You’re treating him?”
Rory nodded and Troy looked confused. “But this isn’t a Craydon file,” he added, referring to the distinctive yellow-and-blue patient files used at the physiotherapy practice she worked for. “What gives, Rorks?”
Rory folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot, her big, silver-gray eyes tight with worry. How much to tell him? As much as she could, she decided, he was her best friend. She trusted him implicitly and valued his judgment. Still, sharing didn’t come easily to her so she took a moment to work out what to say. “Mac and I have a...history.”
Troy’s snort was disbelieving. “Honey, you’re not his type. He dates tall, stacked, exotic gazelles.”
Rory scowled. She knew what type of woman Mac dated. She saw them every time she opened a newspaper or magazine. “I know that I am short, and flat-chested,” Rory snapped. “You don’t need to rub it in.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Troy quietly stated. “Yeah, you’re short but you have a great figure, you know that you do. And there’s nothing wrong with your chest.”
“Like you’d know,” Rory muttered.
“I know that you desperately need some masculine hands on your boobs and on other more exciting parts of your body. It’s been a year, eighteen months, since you’ve had some action?”
Actually it was closer to two years, but she’d rather die than admit that to Mr. Cool. “Can we concentrate on my McCaskill problem please?”
“He’s a problem?”
“You’ve
