“There’s nothing better than this,” Presley Houston boomed as he handed his daughter a bottle of Evian and joined her by the window overlooking the rink below.
They had the owner’s box to themselves tonight, which came as a great relief. When she was surrounded by her father’s colleagues, Hayden always felt as if she were one of those whales or dolphins at SeaWorld. Frolicking, swimming, doing tricks—all the while trying to figure out a way to break through the glass, escape the stifling tank and return to the wild where she belonged.
“Do you get to any games out in California?” Presley asked, picking an imaginary fleck of lint from the front of his gray Armani jacket.
“No, Dad.”
“Why the hell not?”
Because I hate hockey and always have?
“I don’t have the time. I was teaching three classes last semester.”
Her father reached out and ruffled her hair, something he’d done ever since she was a little girl. She found the gesture comforting. It reminded her of the years they’d been close. Before the Warriors. Before Sheila. Back when it was just the two of them.
Her heart ached as her dad tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shot her one of his charming smiles. And her father undeniably had charm. Despite the loud, booming voice, the restless energy he seemed to radiate and the focused and often shrewd glint in his eyes, he had a way of making everyone around him feel like he was their best friend. That was probably why his players seemed to idolize him, and definitely why she had idolized him growing up. She’d never thought her dad was perfect. He’d dragged her around the country for his career. But he’d also been there when it counted, helping with her homework, letting her take art classes during the offseason, giving her that painful birds-and-bees talk.
It brought a knot of pain to her gut that her father didn’t seem to notice the distance between them. Not that she expected them to be best friends—she was an adult now and leading her own life. Nevertheless, it would be nice to at least maintain some kind of friendship with her dad. But he lived and breathed the Warriors now, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d pushed his only daughter onto the back burner of his life these past seven years.
She noticed that gray threads of hair were beginning to appear at his temples. She’d seen him over Christmas, but somehow he seemed older. There were even wrinkles around his mouth that hadn’t been there before. The divorce proceedings were evidently taking a toll on him.
“Sweetheart, I know this might not be the best time to bring this up,” her father began suddenly, averting his eyes. He focused on the spectacle of the game occurring below, as if he could channel the energy of the players and find the nerve to continue. Finally, he did. “One of the reasons I asked you to come home…well, see… Diana wants you to give a deposition.”
Her head jerked up. “What? Why?”
“You were one of the witnesses the day Sheila signed the prenuptial agreement.” Her dad’s voice was gentler than she’d heard in years. “Do you remember?”
Seriously? Did he actually think she’d forget? The day they’d signed the prenup happened to be the first meeting between Hayden and her only-two-years-older stepmother. The shock that her fifty-seven-year-old father was getting remarried after years of being alone hadn’t been as great as learning that he was marrying a woman so many years his junior.
Hayden prided herself on being open-minded, but her mind always seemed to slam shut the second her father was involved. Although Sheila claimed otherwise, Hayden wasn’t convinced that her stepmother hadn’t married Presley for his money, prenup or not.
Her suspicions had been confirmed when three months into the marriage, Sheila convinced Hayden’s dad to buy a multimillion-dollar mansion—because living in a penthouse was so passé, a small yacht—because the sea air would do them good, and a brand-new wardrobe—because the wife of a sports team owner needed to look sharp. Hayden didn’t even want to know how much money her dad had spent on Sheila that first year. Even if she worked until she was ninety, she’d probably never earn that much. Sheila, of course, had quit her waitressing job the day after the wedding, and as far as Hayden knew, her stepmother now spent her days shopping away Presley’s money.
“Do I really have to get involved in this?” she asked, sighing.
“It’s just one deposition, sweetheart. All you need to do is go on record and state that Sheila was in her right mind when she signed those papers.” Presley made a rude sound. “She’s claiming coercion was involved.”
“Oh, Dad. Why did you marry that woman?”
Her father didn’t answer, and she didn’t blame him. He’d always been a proud man, and admitting his failures didn’t come naturally to him.
“This won’t go to court, will it?” Her stomach turned at the thought.
“I doubt it.” He ruffled her hair again. “Diana is confident we’ll be able to reach a settlement. Sheila can’t go on like this forever. Sooner or later she’ll give up.”
Not likely.
She kept her suspicions to herself, not wanting to upset her father any further. She could tell by the frustration in his eyes that the situation was making him feel powerless. And she knew how much he hated feeling powerless.
Hayden gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Of course she will.” She gestured to the window. “By the way, the team’s looking really good.”
She had no clue whether the team looked good or not, but her words brought a smile to her father’s lips and that was all that mattered.
“They are, aren’t they? Wyatt and Becker are really coming together this season. Stan said it was tough going, trying to make them get along.”
“They don’t like each other?” she said, not bothering to ask who Wyatt and Becker were.
Her dad shrugged, then took a swig from the glass of bourbon in his hand. “You know how it is, sweetheart. Alpha males and their pissing contests. The league is nothing more than an association of egos.”
“Dad…” She searched for the right words. “That stuff in the paper yesterday, about the illegal betting… It’s not true, is it?”
“Of course not.” He scowled. “It’s all a bunch of lies.”
“You sure I shouldn’t be worried?”
He pulled her close, squeezing her shoulder. “There is absolutely nothing for you to worry about. I promise.”
“Good.”
A deafening buzz followed by a cheesy dance beat interrupted their conversation. In a second Presley was on his feet, clapping and giving a thumbs-up to the camera that seemed to float past the window.
“Did we win?” she asked, feeling stupid for asking and even stupider for not knowing.
Her father chuckled. “Not yet. There’s five minutes left to the third.” He returned to his seat. “When the game’s done how about I take you for a quick tour of the arena? We’ve done a lot of renovations since you were last here. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” she lied.
Brody stepped out of the shower and drifted back to the main locker area. He pressed his hand to his side and winced at the jolt of pain that followed. A glance down confirmed what he already knew—that massive check from Valdek at the beginning of the second period had resulted in a large bruise that was slowly turning purple. Asshole.
“You took a shitty penalty,” Wyatt was grumbling to Jones when Brody reached the bench.
The captain’s normally calm voice contained a hint of antagonism, and his ice-blue eyes flashed with disapproval, also uncharacteristic. Brody wondered what was up Wyatt’s ass, but he preferred to stay out of quarrels between his teammates. Hockey players were wired to begin with, so minor disagreements often ended badly.
Derek rolled his eyes. “What are you complaining about? We won the fucking game.”
“It could’ve been a shutout,” Wyatt snapped. “You gave up a goal to Franks with that penalty. We might be up by two games, but we need to win two more to make it to the next round. There’s no room for mistakes.”
Still glowering, Mr. Serious strode out of the locker room, slamming the door behind him.
Jones tossed a what-the-hell’s-up-with-him? look in Brody’s direction, but he just shrugged, still determined to stay out of it.
Dressing quickly, he shoved his sweaty uniform into the locker, suddenly eager to get out of there.
“Later, boys,” he called over his shoulder.
Then he stepped into the brightly lit hallway and promptly collided with a warm wall of curves.
“I’m sor—” The apology died in his throat when he laid eyes on the woman he’d bodychecked.
Not just any woman, but the one he’d been thinking about—and getting hard over—all day.
A startled noise flew out of her mouth. “Brody?”
His surprise quickly transformed into a rush of satisfaction and pleasure. “Hayden.”
Looking her up and down, Brody was taken aback by the white silk blouse she wore and the knee-length floral-print skirt that swirled over her legs. A huge change from the bright yellow top and faded jeans she’d worn last night. In this getup she looked more like a prim professor and less like the passionate vixen who’d cried out his name so many times last night. The shift was disconcerting.
“What are…” Hayden’s eyes darted to the sign on the door beside them. “You play for the Warriors?”
“Sure do.” He lifted one brow. “I thought you said you weren’t a hockey fan.”
“I’m not. I…” Her voice trailed off.
What was she doing in this part of the arena? he suddenly wondered. Only folks with ID badges were allowed back here.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sweetheart,” boomed a male voice. “Shall we continue the tour—” Presley Houston broke out in a wide smile when he noticed Brody. “You played well out there tonight, Croft.”
“Thanks, Pres.” He looked from Hayden to Presley, wondering if he was missing something.
Then a hot spurt of jealousy erupted in his gut when he realized that Presley had called Hayden sweetheart.
Oh, fuck. Had he screwed around with Houston’s mistress?
A dose of anger joined the jealousy swirling through him. He eyed the woman he’d spent the night with, wanting to throttle her for hopping into bed with him when she was very much taken, but Presley’s next words quickly killed the urge and brought with them another shock.
“I see you’ve met my daughter Hayden.”
