Colorado was not going to win tonight.
Nope. Not winning.
Brody repeated that mantra in his head as he dressed for game five of the series. Right now, the series stood at 3-1. If Colorado won tonight, the Warriors would be out of the playoffs.
Luckily, Colorado wasn’t going to fucking win tonight.
The roar of the crowd was deafening as Brody hopped out of the bench and stepped onto the ice for his first shift of the night, the chill of the rink biting through his gear. It was game time, and he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Fuck yes. This was where he thrived. In his element.
He got in position next to Wyatt at center and Jones at right wing. A few seconds later the puck dropped, and it was a race to gain control. The opposing center lunged forward at Wyatt, knocking the puck away from Wyatt’s stick. It skittered sideways, and Brody dug his blade in, pushing as hard as he could. In a burst of power, he gained possession and deked out his opponent, then flicked the puck backward to Jones, who took off like a rocket.
The voices in the arena became a distant buzz as the Warriors’ first line weaved through the opposition, snapping the puck back and forth with pinpoint accuracy. The rink seemed to shrink as Brody approached the opposing team’s zone. The crowd’s collective gasps and cheers were the only reminders of the world outside the plexiglass walls. He was somewhere else now, wholly focused on one goal—score. Because scoring first would set the tone for the rest of this game.
The opposing defenseman, however, wasn’t going to let Brody through easily. He lunged, stick outstretched, trying to disrupt Brody’s attack. He snapped the puck back to Wyatt, but his captain didn’t have a shot. Elbowing the Colorado asshole who kept bumping him around, Brody saw Wyatt pass the puck back through a forest of legs and skates. The puck connected with Brody’s stick, and for a brief moment, time seemed to slow. He could see the openings, the angles, the goalie’s positioning.
He wound up and released a blistering shot. The puck sailed through the air, seeking the back of the net like a guided missile. The goalie reacted, but it was too late.
Goal.
The arena exploded with noise. Cheers from Warriors fans, and disappointed groans and boos from the Colorado home crowd. Brody barely had time to enjoy the exhilaration before Coach Gray called for a line change and he was racing back to the Warriors bench.
“You fucking beast, Croft!” Levy crowed, smacking him on the arm.
“Atta boy,” their coach said with a nod of approval, before turning back to the action in front of them.
Other than a few fist bumps and cheers from the others on the bench, there was no more time to revel in that moment. The game raged on.
He gulped down some water, chest heaving, heart pounding. He was barely there a minute before it was time for another shift.
Playoffs hockey was fucking intense. Faster, better accuracy, high pressure. The tempo was relentless. The puck moved like lightning, and the hits were bone crushing. Colorado wasn’t about to back down, and Brody wouldn’t have it any other way. Every shift was a test of will.
By the time the final buzzer sounded and the Warriors secured the W, Brody felt like he’d fought a war. He hadn’t come away from it unscathed, his shoulder aching from a deadly cross-check in the third. Still, he was practically floating on air as he followed his teammates into the locker room.
“That’s how we do it!” Jones shouted, jumping up on the bench as he celebrated the victory.
“We’re not out of it yet,” their teammate Cody piped up. His face was flushed, eyes bright with satisfaction.
No, they weren’t out of it. And the next game would be a home one, which gave them a solid chance of tying the series. Sure, that meant game seven would be back in Colorado, but hell, they needed to get to a game seven first.
Brody hit the showers, then returned to his locker to check his phone. He couldn’t stop a smile when he found a text from Hayden, congratulating him for the win. He quickly sent a message in response.
BRODY: Thanks, Professor. Means a lot.
His smile widened when she immediately started typing.
HAYDEN: I told you to stop calling me that!
BRODY: Why? It’s hot.
HAYDEN: How is me being a professor hot?
BRODY: Babe, every guy has fantasized about his teacher at one point in his life. Trust me, it’s hot.
HAYDEN: In that case, do you want me to wear some slacks and a blazer when I see you tomorrow?
BRODY: Fuck yeah.
HAYDEN: Maybe put my hair in a tight bun too…
BRODY: I’m in public, stop turning me on.
He shrugged his suit jacket on, which he was mandated to wear on away games, and especially during the playoffs. Then he typed out her another message.
BRODY: What are you thinking for dinner tomorrow? I can bring Chinese.
HAYDEN: Yes please! And make sure to get the broccoli eggplant and chow mein.
BRODY: I hope you know that’s not the only eggplant you’re getting.
“Did you just refer to your dick as an eggplant?” Jones asked from behind him, and Brody swore when he realized the rookie was reading over his shoulder.
“Hey, privacy!” He quickly shoved the phone in his pocket.
“And who’s Hayley?” Jones pressed, grinning widely.
Brody swallowed his relief that Jones had misread Hayden’s name. “Hayley is none of your business,” he replied, giving his teammate the finger. From the corner of his eye, he saw Becker shaking his head at him.
Jones laughed. “Dude, you are so lame.”
“Yeah, well, she enjoys my lame ass. Unlike the chicks you date, who can’t wait to dump you.”
His teammate blinked in surprise. “Wait, what do you mean date? Since when do you date?”
Fucking hell. Why’d he have to open his mouth?
Luckily, their team manager was getting impatient and starting to usher everyone to the bus. Their flight wasn’t until early tomorrow morning, so the bus took them back to the hotel where the team had booked an entire block of rooms.
Brody stopped in his only to change from his dress clothes into jeans and a T-shirt. It was eleven thirty and he’d just played three strenuous periods of hockey, but he wasn’t tired, so he texted Becker telling him to meet him in the lobby bar for a drink.
He got there first, finding the bar deserted save for one lone figure at the counter.
Craig Wyatt.
Brody hesitated. It had been weeks since he’d seen Wyatt whispering with Sheila Houston, but he’d yet to confront the guy about it. Mostly because it didn’t feel like it was any of his damn business. Brody knew he’d be resentful as hell if one of his teammates stuck his nose into his love life. Really, who the hell was he to confront Wyatt, let alone judge him?
It was his suspicions that Wyatt had spoken to the press that complicated everything. His fear that Craig Wyatt knew something about the bribery and game-rigging allegations. His even bigger fear that those fucking allegations might actually be true.
As if sensing his presence, Wyatt lifted his blond head and glanced at the door. He nodded in greeting when he spotted Brody.
Brody nodded back and offered a quick smile, which Wyatt didn’t return. The man rarely smiled. Even after tonight’s win, he’d looked more somber than elated. After three years of skating with the guy, Brody was used to it. But he had to admit, it didn’t make Wyatt feel very approachable.
“Hey.” Someone slapped his shoulder.
He looked over at Becker. “Hey.”
“Want to grab a high top?” Sam gestured to the sea of empty tables. It was Sunday and nearly midnight, and the lobby bar was a ghost town.
Brody glanced in Craig’s direction again. “Think I should go over there?”
Instantly, Becker’s expression sharpened. “What for?”
“I still haven’t talked to him about what I saw.” He suddenly remembered Becker’s offer to talk to Wyatt, and he tipped his head in a question. “Did you ever ask him about it?”
Becker shook his head. “Tried to, but he shut me down. Come on, let’s sit.”
As they slid onto a pair of stools, the bartender drifted over to take their order.
“He shut you down how?” Brody asked, his gaze once again flitting toward Wyatt.
“I told him that someone told me they thought they saw him with Mrs. Houston, and he basically threw up a brick wall. Said he had nothing to say about that and then stalked off. I didn’t want to chase him and badger him with more questions. If he wasn’t going to talk about Sheila Houston, then he definitely wasn’t going to say anything about the bribery allegations. It was obvious he wasn’t going to talk to me, so I dropped it.”
“But he didn’t deny it.”
“Nope.” Becker smiled at the young man who returned with their drinks, thanking him. Then he took a quick sip of his whiskey, set the glass down and eyed Brody.
“What?”
“Can we talk about Hayley now?”
Brody’s guard rose.
“What, you’re using code names with her now?”
“No, Jones just didn’t get a good look at my phone. She’s in there as Hayden.”
Becker leaned in on his forearms, lowering his voice. “Kid. You know I love you. But you need to cut this out, man. I told you last week at the Gallagher Club—you can’t be fucking the team owner’s daughter.”
Brody’s mood shifted from wariness to annoyance. “I’m not just fucking her. I’m dating her.”
Well, sort of. Hayden still considered it a fling. But he was confident she could feel it shifting, same way he could.
“Shit, that’s even worse.”
“How is that worse?” Brody challenged.
Becker sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re all under investigation right now. Every single one of us needs to look as clean as a whistle. And getting involved with the owner’s daughter? That’s not a good look.”
Brody set his jaw. “Hayden has nothing to do with her father and any accusations being made against him.”
“You don’t know that. If he did do it, maybe he confided in her. And maybe she’ll confide in you. Drag you into this whole mess.” Becker held up his hands in a calming gesture. “I’m just telling you this because I give a shit about you. Perception matters, especially in situations like this. You need to be careful until all this blows over.”
Brody clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “I can’t control what people say or think. I haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m not about to stop seeing Hayden just because her father may or may not be guilty.”
“This isn’t just about you. It’s about the team. The last thing we need is more drama and distractions.”
“There is no drama. Hayden and I are being discreet. And I fucking like her. You want me to give up something real because of some damn investigation? I’m not doing that, Sam.”
His teammate looked startled. “Something real?” he echoed warily.
“Yeah, man. Something real. She makes me happy. I get excited to see her, and I miss her when she’s not around. So, no, I’m not giving that up.”
Becker’s eyes flashed with frustration, then dissolved into resignation. “Fuck. Fine.” He shook his head and brought his glass to his lips, taking another swig of whiskey. “Just don’t come crying to me when it all blows up in your face.”
