Brody left the locker room after a grueling practice on Thursday afternoon, wondering if he’d made a big mistake by telling Hayden the next move was hers. It had seemed like the right play at the time, but today, after two hours of tedious drills topped off by a lecture from Coach Gray, he was rethinking the action he’d taken.
Or more specifically, regretting the action he wouldn’t be getting.
His body was sore, his nerves shot, and he knew a few hours in Hayden’s bed was all the medicine he needed.
He also knew she wouldn’t call.
You got cocky, man.
Was that it? Had he been so confident in his ability to turn Hayden on that he just assumed she’d want him to do it again?
Damn it, why hadn’t he taken her home with him? He’d seen the lust in her eyes, known that all he had to do was say the word and she’d be in his arms again, but he’d held back.
No, pride had held him back. He hadn’t wanted to go to bed with her knowing he’d twisted her arm into joining him for that drink in the first place. He wanted it to be her choice. Her terms, her desire.
It was almost comical, how this stubborn art history professor had gotten under his skin. She was so different from the women he’d dated in the past. Smarter, prettier, more serious, definitely more pigheaded. He knew he should just let her go, seeing as how she obviously didn’t want to pursue a relationship. But his instincts kept screaming for him not to let her out of his sight, that if he blinked, she’d be gone and someone important would be slipping through his grasp. It made no sense to him, and yet he always trusted his instincts. They’d never failed him before.
He kicked a pebble on his way to the car, feeling like kicking something harder than a rock. His own thick skull, perhaps.
As he unlocked the driver’s-side door, he swore when he realized his wrist was bare. Shit. He’d left his watch in the rink. He always forgot that damn thing. He hated wearing a watch to begin with, but it had been a gift from his parents in honor of his first professional game eight years ago. His folks were ferociously proud of him, and he witnessed that pride every time he went home to Michigan for a visit and saw them staring at that watch.
Sighing, he turned and headed back to the entrance of the sprawling gray building. The Warriors practiced in a private arena a few miles from the Lincoln Center. It was a little unorthodox, but Brody found it somewhat of a relief. It meant the media never filmed their practices, which took the pressure off him and the guys to always be on top of their game.
The double doors at the entrance led to a large sterile lobby. To the left were the hallways leading to the locker rooms, and when Brody strode into the arena he immediately noticed the two people huddled by the locker-room corridor. Their backs were turned, allowing Brody to quickly sidestep to the right, ducking into another hall with a row of vending machines.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” came Craig Wyatt’s muffled voice.
Brody hissed in a breath, hoping the Warriors captain and his companion hadn’t spotted him.
He sure as hell spotted them, though.
Which posed the question: What was Craig Wyatt doing whispering with Sheila Houston?
“I know. I just had to see you,” Sheila said, her voice so soft Brody had to strain his ears to hear her. “That meeting with the lawyers today was terrible…” There was a faint sob.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby.”
Baby?
Deciding he’d officially heard enough—and that he’d return for his watch another time—Brody edged toward the emergency exit at the end of the hallway. He turned the door handle, praying an alarm wouldn’t go off. It didn’t. Relieved, he exited the side door of the rink and practically sprinted back to his BMW.
The drive to his Hyde Park house brought with it a tornado of confusion that made his head spin. Craig Wyatt and Sheila Houston? The player rumored to be having an affair with the owner’s wife was Wyatt? Brody would’ve never expected it from the straitlaced Mr. Serious.
Fuck. And if that rumor was true, that meant the idea of bribes exchanging hands in the franchise might not be a lie, either. Craig Wyatt might have the personality of a brick wall, but he was the captain of the team, as well as the eyes and ears. He frequently kept track of everyone’s progress, making sure they were all in tip-top shape and focused on the game. If he suspected anyone had taken a bribe, he would’ve investigated it, no doubt about it.
Was Wyatt the source Sheila had referred to in that interview? Had he been the one to tell her about the bribes?
Or…
Shit, had Wyatt taken a bribe himself?
No. That didn’t make sense. Sheila wouldn’t draw attention to the bribery and illegal betting if her lover was one of the guilty parties.
Brody pulled into his driveway and killed the engine. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off an oncoming headache.
Damn it. This was not good at all.
He didn’t particularly care what or who Craig Wyatt did in his spare time, but if Wyatt knew something about these rumors…
Maybe he should just confront the man, flat out ask what he knew. Or maybe he’d ask Becker to do it for him. Becker was good at stuff like that, knew how to handle tough situations and still keep a clear head.
He rubbed his temples, then leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. Fuck, he didn’t want to deal with any of this. If he had his way, this entire scandal would just disappear; he’d play out the rest of the season then re-sign with the Warriors or land on a new team. His career would be secure, and his life would be just fucking peachy.
Oh, and Hayden Houston would be back in his bed.
But her name was still conspicuously absent from his phone, the lack of notifications revealing he clearly hadn’t won her over with the Lakeshore Lounge orgasm.
As he walked up the porch steps to his front door, he typed out a quick text to Becker.
BRODY: Any chance you can make it over for a beer tonight? Need to talk to you about something.
Becker’s response came faster than he expected. Usually, the man didn’t check his phone much when he was at home with his family. Sam always said that time with his daughters was far more important to him than looking at a “damn screen.”
BECKER: Didn’t I just see you at practice?
BRODY: I know. It’s important, though.
Brody could see his friend typing, and those three dots rippled in the chat thread for quite a while before another message finally popped up.
BECKER: Yeah sure. I’ll be there after Tamara’s bedtime. Around 8.
BRODY: Sounds good. See you later.
He let his teammate in a few hours later, grinning when Sam shrugged out of his jacket and splashed water droplets all over Brody’s face. “Thanks,” he said wryly.
“It’s raining like crazy out there,” Becker grumbled. “You better have a good excuse for dragging me over here tonight.”
“Trust me, it’s a good one.”
He tossed Becker’s coat on one of the hooks in the front hall. The two men headed for the kitchen, where Brody grabbed a pair of beer bottles and handed his friend one.
“What’s this?” Sam asked, peering at the open laptop on the white granite counter. “Is it your mom’s birthday or something?”
Brody swiftly walked over and flipped the computer shut. Fuck. He’d left the florist website tab open when he went to answer the door. “Oh. Yeah. It’s for Mother’s Day.”
“Mother’s Day was last weekend.” Sam leaned his jean-clad hip against the counter, chuckling.
“Right. And I forgot to send my mom flowers, hence the belated Mother’s Day gift.”
“You’re such a shit liar.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Who says I’m lying?”
“Kid, it was my assistant who arranged the flower deliveries for both our mothers.”
Oh, right. Fucking hell.
Sam laughed harder at the defeated look on Brody’s face. “So who are the flowers for?”
Sighing, he lifted the beer to his lips and took a long swig. “Take a seat. This might take a while.”
His friend gave an answering sigh. “Seriously? You brought me over here to talk about your love life?”
Technically, he hadn’t. But now that Becker was here, he might as well hit the man up for some advice. Sam had been happily married for the past fifteen years, so clearly the dude knew a thing or two about relationships.
“Not just that, but we can get into the rest of it later,” Brody said as he collapsed onto the leather sectional in the living room. “I did a dumb thing.”
“What else is new?”
“Fuck off.”
Sam sank into the recliner opposite the couch, balancing his bottle on his knee. “Fine. I’ll bite. What did you do?”
“Presley Houston’s daughter.”
There was a beat, and then Becker barked out a laugh. “Fuck’s sake.”
“See? I told you it was dumb.” He took another hasty sip of beer. “In my defense, I didn’t know she was his daughter when I hooked up with her.”
“So, what, now you’re worried he’s going to find out and bench you indefinitely?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Because that ain’t gonna happen, kid. We’re playing our next game two nights from now. He’s not going to risk not having his pretty boy superstar on the ice for it.”
“First of all, I’m not his superstar. That’s Wyatt.”
Fuck, which was who they should be talking about right now. He’d asked Becker to come by so he could tell him about Craig Wyatt and Sheila Houston, not to whine about his sex life.
“I notice you didn’t deny the pretty boy part.”
Brody grinned. “Why would I? It’s true. Anyway, Pres finding out is a concern, yeah. I don’t think he’d bench me, but he definitely wouldn’t be happy about it. Dude used to be a coach. I don’t know a single coach who’d be cool with their daughter hooking up with a hockey player. Unless it’s you. You’re so pathetically perfect, any dad would happily marry their little girl off to you.”
“Did you ask me over here for advice or to insult me?”
“I said you were perfect, you asshole. How is that an insult?”
Becker snickered. “Are you ever going to get to the point of this conversation?”
Setting his beer on the coffee table, Brody quickly filled his teammate in about his two encounters with Hayden, and how both had ended with her not calling him. Becker’s shiteating grin at hearing this didn’t make him feel any better.
“You could at least pretend to sympathize,” Brody grumbled.
“Seriously? I’ve spent the last eight years watching women fall at your feet. Remember the chick that broke into your hotel room when we were playing Denver and handcuffed herself to your bed? Oh, fuck, or the twin sisters in San Jose who got your name tattooed on their ass cheeks and then tried to lure you into a threesome in the rooftop pool?”
Man. Those days were wild.
“So, yeah, it’s about time your ego took a few hits.” Becker grinned. “Also, do you really think a bouquet of roses is going to convince her to see you again? Because these days, that’s considered low effort. You need a bigger gesture than a few flowers.”
He offered a shrug. “It would at least get me a thank-you call. Then I could work my magic and…” He trailed off suggestively.
“Get rejected again?” Becker supplied.
“Fuck off.” He grabbed his bottle and took another swig. Then, thoughtful, he met Becker’s amused gaze. “What do you consider a big gesture? Like what’s going to win this girl over?”
“Last time I pissed off Mary, I had to remodel our downstairs bathroom.”
“That’s not at all helpful.”
That got him another laugh. “I’m shit at this romance stuff, kid. Ask my wife. She’ll tell you how bad I am at groveling.”
“I’m not trying to grovel. I just want to see her again.” He could hear the frustration in his tone, and Becker didn’t miss it, either.
The other man raised a brow. “This one’s really gotten under your skin, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said glumly. “I don’t like it. Since when do I give a fuck about impressing a woman?” Brody groaned. “Come on. Help me out here. How do I get her to see me again?”
Sam just grinned again. “I don’t know. Be creative.”
