John Layfield's phone had been ringing off the hook since the infamous picture of Dean surfaced online. While his colleagues laughed and shamed Dean for being careless, John saw the bigger picture.

Money. Lots and lots of it.

It'd been a couple of days since news of Dean's notorious member made its way through various online message boards and social media platforms. He remained silent and so did the artist, who John had a feeling was anyone but Renee. He'd deal with later that subject. He was more concerned with what the drawing did for Dean's popularity and fanbase.

Immediately, sales of his jersey spiked. Hits to the Kings website shot up overnight and Dean was the number one trending topic for two days – a stunning feat that even the most A-list celebrity wishes they could do. And John had Dean's dick to thank.

He had to field offers from Viagra, a sex toy company that wanted to replicate Dean's member, and he heard whispers that an adult film company was interested in Dean. He shot them all down. His only concern was Dean being focused on the ice and nothing but. He could do whatever the heck he wanted once he retired but for now, Dean's focus was getting another Stanley Cup for his Kings and silencing his critics, who still questioned if he was worth every penny of his fourteen million-dollar contract.

"Yo, kiddo…give me a call when you get this. We have lots to talk about when you return from San Francisco." John left a message and hung up. He crossed out a line on his long itinerary. Now it was time to tackle the next bit of news.

Ms. Renee Not-So Young.

Now, John wasn't born last night and he wasn't a spring chicken, neither. But he definitely knew the difference between a person telling a slightly embellished truth and them being full of nothing but bullshit. He met Renee once during a dinner meeting with Dean when she just happened to be in the neighborhood. She was beautiful, gracious, and a bit charming.

He also read the dancing dollar signs in her eyes and knew what he real intention was to Dean.

Sure, she liked him a lot. Hell, she might have even loved him. But John knew just as well as anyone that once Dean retired and was no longer a thought in anyone's mind, Renee would be gone too. John wondered if that was something Renee knew and she didn't want to admit the truth.

Still, he wasn't going to get involved in what scheme Renee was plotting and he was sure there was a good one. His only protection was to make sure Dean's focus was on the ice and he didn't blow all of his money like many athletes his age. He didn't care who was in his bed at night as long as she didn't use her Yoko Ono-influence on his money or his career.

John had to admit, however, he did wonder what Renee was planning. He decided after he met with another client of his, he was going to stop by his favorite cigar shop and pick out a nice cigar. He might pick up a bottle of whisky as well.

He was going to kick back and enjoy the Renee show.

It was a long day and it was about to become longer for one Trisha Jeffers.

Going into her fourth hour of clinical rotations, the third-year medical student relied on the power of Jesus and his creation of Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts coffee, and pretty much every coffee shop on planet Earth to keep her awake. If she wasn't studying, she was doing clinicals. If she wasn't doing clinicals, she was in class. If she wasn't in class, she was enjoying the most wonderful few hours of sleep. And it really was just a few.

She sat in the hospital cafeteria and enjoyed what was her fourth cup of coffee already that morning. She only had a few minutes, it was going to be a solitary moment of peace, and she was enjoying every moment of it. No whiny patients, no rude doctors, and no one to make her smile into a frown.

Too much coffee and not enough sleep later, Trisha really had no time for any bullshit and games. Unfortunately for her, bullshit and games was Roman Reign's middle name. "May I help you?"

"I need your help." Roman smiled, flashing his pearly whites.

"I can recommend a good psychiatrist," Trisha offered before Roman sat down across from her. "I didn't invite you to sit."

"I don't care," he kept the smile on the face, "I need your help."

"With what?" Trisha narrowed her eyes.

"Sydney," his voice was authoritative.

"No," Trisha replied, and hoped the conversation was over at that point. "Excuse me, I need to get back to work. I have actual patients to see."

"I'm a patient."

"No, you're not."

"I'm injured," Roman offered.

Trisha eyed Roman's body. "You look fine to me."

Roman pulled out a pocket knife and made a quick slash across his bicep. He immediately began bleeding. "Ouch," he deadpanned.

Trisha sighed and pulled Roman into a private room. "Hop on," she motioned to the bed and Roman complied. She rummaged for a first-aid kit and soon found one. She cleaned up Roman's artificial wound and noticed he cut deep enough to make a bleed but not enough for stitching. He was too smart for his own good. "What do you want, Roman?"

"I want to talk to her."

"About?"

"That's between me and Syd," he watched Trisha clean his wound.

"When it involves Syd, Roman, you no longer have that privilege," she wrapped a bandage around his arm.

"That's for me to decide," he replied, "I want to know if she's okay."

"She is," Trisha cut up the bandage and sealed it. "She's wonderful, actually."

"Good," Roman rubbed his bondage, "I want her phone number."

"Ask her yourself," she replied, "we're done here. You can see yourself out."

"I will come back every day until I get her number," he threatened and Trisha stopped in her tracks, "I'm sure I can be creative in coming up with different injuries for you to treat."