was a normal reaction to not wanting to be alone, he decided, reaching for the shampoo and savagely dumping far too much in his open palm, cursing when most of it fell to the floor. He viciously rubbed what was left over his long hair and his beard and swore when some suds burned his eyes. Turning the jets as far as they could go, he ducked and allowed the water to pummel his head, his face, his shoulders. Marriage, family, kids—all impossible. Seven years ago, during a routine team checkup, he’d been told by the team doctor and a specialist that his blood tests indicated there was a 95 percent chance he was infertile. Further tests were suggested, but Quinn, not particularly fazed, hadn’t bothered. He’d quickly moved on from the news and that was what he needed to do again. Like, right now. Is it time for you to grow up, Rayne?
His friends’ lives were changing and because of that, his should too. Quinn swore, his curses bouncing off the bathroom walls. But, unfair or not, the fact was that his liaison with Storm, his daredevil stunts, his laissez-faire attitude to everything but his coaching and training of the team, had tarnished the image of the Mavericks and Bayliss didn’t want him to be part of the deal. If Kade and Mac decided to side with him and ditch Bayliss as an investor, there was a very real chance that the Widow Hasselback would sell the franchise to Chenko. And that would be on Quinn’s head.
His teammates, his friends, his brothers didn’t deserve that.
He didn’t have a choice. He’d sacrifice his free-wheelin’ lifestyle, clean up his mouth, tone down the crazy stunts, exhibit some patience and stop giving the press enough rope to hang him. Mac and Kade, his players, the fans—everyone needed him to pull a rabbit out of his hat and that’s what he would do. But how long would it take for the press to get off his ass? Three months? Six? He could behave himself for as long as he needed to, but it would mean no stunts, no women...
No women. After Storm’s crazy-as-hell behavior, he was happy to date himself for a while. And the new season was about to start. With draft picks and fitness assessments and training, he wouldn’t have that much spare time. Yeah, he could take a break from the sweeter-smelling species for a while, easily.
What he wouldn’t do is get married. That was crazy talk. Besides, Cal had been joking. She had a weird, offbeat sense of humor.
Quinn shut off the jets, grabbed a towel and wound it around his hips. He walked out of his bathroom and braked the moment he saw Cal sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed, a beer bottle in her hand.
“Just make yourself at home, sunshine,” he drawled, sarcasm oozing from every clean pore.
“We should get married,” she told him, a light of determination in her eyes.
He recognized that look. Cal had her serious-as-hell face on. “God, Cal! Have you lost your mind?”
* * *
Possibly.
Cal watched as Quinn disappeared into his walk-in closet and slammed the door behind him. She eyed the closed door and waited for him to reemerge, knowing that she needed to make eye contact with Quinn to make him realize how desperately serious she was.
Dear Lord, the man had a six-pack that could make a woman weep. Callahan Adam, get a grip! You’ve seen Quinn in just a towel before. Hell, you’ve seen him naked before! This should not—he should not—be able to distract you!
Right. Focus.
Them getting married was a temporary, brilliant solution to both their problems, but she’d have to coax, persuade and maybe bully him into tying the knot with her. If she and Quinn married, she would be killing a flock of pesky pigeons with one supercharged, magic stone. She just needed Quinn to see the big picture...
The door to the closet opened and Quinn walked out, now dressed in a pair of straight-legged track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, the arms pushed up to reveal the muscles in his forearms. He’d brushed his hair off his face, but his scowl remained.
Cal sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed and patted the comforter next to her. “Let’s chat.”
“Let’s not if you’re going to mention the word marriage.” Quinn scowled and sat on the edge of the bucket chair in the corner, his elbows on his knees and his expression as dark as the night falling outside. Oh, she recognized the stubbornness in his eyes. He wasn’t in any mood to discuss her on-the-fly proposal. If she pushed him now, he’d dig in his heels and she’d end up inheriting Toby’s tainted $200 million.
Being a little stubborn herself, she knew that the best way to handle Quinn was to back off and approach the problem from another angle.
Cal rubbed her eyes with her fist. “It’s been a really crazy afternoon. And a less-than-wonderful day. I spoke to my dad’s doctor about fifteen minutes ago.”
Quinn’s demeanor immediately changed from irritation to concern. He leaned forward, his concentration immediately, absolutely, focused on her. It was one of his most endearing traits. If you were his friend and he cared about you and you said that you were in trouble that was all that was important. “And? Is he okay?”
“He looked awful, so very old,” Cal said, placing her beer bottle on his bedside table. Her father would be okay, she reminded herself as panic climbed up her throat. The triple heart bypass had been successful and he just needed time to recover.
“The doctor says he needs to take three months off. He needs to be stress-free for that time. He’s recommended my father book into a private, very exclusive recovery center in Switzerland.”
“But?”
“According to the doc, Dad is worried about the foundation. Apparently, there are loads of fund-raisers soon—the annual masked ball, the half-marathon, the art auction. The doctor said that if I want my father to make a full recovery, I’ll have to find someone to take over his responsibilities.”
“There’s only one person he’d allow to step into his shoes,” Quinn stated, stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair.
“Me.”
“You’re an Adam, Red, and your father has always held the view that the foundation needs an Adam face. I remember him giving you a thirty-minute monologue over dinner about how the contributors and the grant recipients valued that personal connection. How old were we? Fifteen?”
Cal smiled. “Fourteen.”
“So are you going to run the foundation for him?”
“How can I not?” Cal replied. “It’s three months. I spent three months building houses in Costa Rica, in Haiti after their earthquake, in that refugee camp in Sudan. I say yes to helping strangers all the time. I want to say yes to helping my father, but I don’t want to stay in Vancouver. I want be anywhere but here. But if I do stay here, then I can help you, Q. Marrying me will help you rehab your reputation.”
If this wasn’t so damn serious, then she’d be tempted to laugh at his horrified expression.
“I’m not interested in using my association with you, sullying my friendship with you, to improve my PR,” Quinn told her in his take-no-prisoners voice.
And there was that streak of honor so few people saw but was a fundamental part of Quinn. He did his own thing, but he made sure his actions didn’t impact anyone else. His integrity—his honor—was why she couldn’t believe a word his psycho ex spouted about their
