way out of her sticky situation. No mess, no fuss.
And if she took over the management of the foundation for a while and found herself back in the social swirl, being Quinn’s wife would assuage some highbrow curiosity about her change from an insecure, meek, jump-at-shadows girl to the stronger, assertive, more confident woman she now was. Nobody would expect Quinn—the Mavericks’ Bad Boy—to have a mousy wife.
This marriage—presuming she could get Quinn to agree—would be in name only. Nothing between them would change. It would be a marriage of convenience, a way to help to free herself from Toby’s tainted legacy.
It would be a ruse, a temporary solution to both their problems. It would be an illusion, a show, a production—but the heart of their friendship, of who they were, would stay the same.
It had to. Anything else would be unacceptable.
Provided, of course, that she could get Quinn to agree.
* * *
Was she out of her mind? Had she left the working part of her brain in... God, where had she been? Some tiny, landlocked African country he couldn’t remember the name of. No matter—what the hell was Cal thinking?
Quinn had been so discombobulated by her prosaic, seemingly serious proposal that he’d shouted at her to stop joking around and told his mates that he was going to take a shower, hoping that some time alone under the powerful sprays of his double-head shower would calm him down.
It was the most relaxing shower system in the world, his architect had promised him. Well, relaxing, his ass.
He simply wasn’t marriage and family material. God, he was barely part of the family he grew up within, and now Cal was suggesting that they make one together?
Cal had definitely taken her seat on the crazy train.
But if she was, if the notion was so alien to him, why did his stomach twitch with excitement at the thought? Why did he sometimes—when he felt tired or stressed—wish he had someone to come home to, a family to distract him from the stresses of being the youngest, least experienced head coach in the league? And, worst of all, why, when he saw Kade and Mac with their women, did he feel, well, squirrelly, like something, maybe, possibly, was missing from his life?
Nah, it was gas or indigestion or an approaching heart attack—he couldn’t possibly be jealous of the happiness he saw in their eyes... Besides, Cal had only suggested marriage, not the added extras.
It 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?”