Uh, you slept with another man, her conscience reminded.
Her cheeks grew hot at the memory of sleeping with Brody. And somehow the words sleeping with Brody seemed unsuitable, as if they described a bland, mundane event like tea with a grandparent. What she and Brody had done was neither bland nor mundane. It had been crazy. Intense. Wild and dirty. Hands down, the best sex of her life.
Was she a complete fool for sending him away this morning?
Probably.
Fine, more like absolutely.
Brody made it clear he wanted to see her again, and sure, that would be nice...
Okay, it would be incredible. But sex wasn’t going to solve her problems. Her issues with Doug would still be there, lurking in the wings like a jealous understudy, as would the stress of her father’s recent struggles. And if Brody wanted more than sex, if he wanted a relationship—as unlikely as that was—what would she do then? Throw a third complication into her already complicated personal life?
No, ending it before it began was the logical solution. Best to leave it as a one-time hookup.
She reached the arena ten minutes later and parked in the area reserved for VIPs, right next to her father’s shiny red Mercedes convertible. She knew it was her dad’s, because of the license plate reading: “TM OWNR.”
Real subtle, Dad.
Why had she even bothered coming home? When her father asked if she could take some time off to be with him during this whole divorce mess, she’d seen it as a sign that he valued her support, wanted her around. But in the week she’d been home she’d only seen him once for a quick lunch in his office. The phone had kept ringing, so they’d barely spoken, and it was unlikely they’d get any time to talk tonight. She knew how focused her dad was when he watched hockey.
With a sigh, she got out of the car and braced herself for a night of watching sweaty men skating after a black disk, while listening to her father rave about how “it doesn’t get better than this.”
Gee, she couldn’t wait.
“Watch out for Valdek tonight,” Sam Becker warned when Brody approached the long wooden bench on one side of the Warriors locker room. He paused in front of his stall.
“Valdek’s back?” Brody groaned. “What happened to his three-game suspension?”
Becker adjusted his shin pads then pulled on his navy blue pants and started lacing up. For thirty-six, he was still in prime condition. When Brody first met the legendary forward, he’d been in awe, even more impressed when he’d seen Becker deke out three guys to score a shorthanded goal, proving to everyone in the league why he still belonged there.
But what had impressed him the most was Becker’s complete lack of arrogance. Despite winning two championship Cups and having a career that rivaled some of the greats, Sam Becker was as down-to-earth as they came. He was the man everyone went to when they had a problem, whether personal or professional, and over the years, he’d become Brody’s closest friend.
“Suspension’s over,” Becker answered. “And he’s out for blood. He hasn’t forgotten who got him suspended, kid.”
Brody ignored the nickname, which Becker refused to ease up on, and snorted. “Right, because it’s my fault he sliced my chin open with his skate.”
A few more players drifted into the room. Their goalie, Alexi Nicklaus, gave a salute in lieu of greeting. Next to him, Derek Jones, this season’s rookie yet already one of the best defensemen in the league, wandered over and said, “Valdek’s back.”
“So I’ve heard.” Brody peeled his black T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the bench.
Jones suddenly hooted, causing him to glance down at his chest.
What he found was a reminder of the hottest sexual experience of his life. Over his left nipple was the purple hickey Hayden’s full lips had branded into his skin, after he’d scooped her off the hallway floor and carried her into the bedroom—where he’d proceeded to fuck her all night long.
This morning he’d woken up to the sight of Hayden’s dark hair fanned across the stark white pillow, one bare breast pressing into his chest and a slender leg hooked over his lower body. He’d cuddled after sex plenty of times in the past, but he couldn’t remember ever awakening to find himself in the exact post-sex position. Normally, he gently rolled his companion over, needing space and distance in order to fall asleep. Last night he hadn’t needed it. In fact, he even remembered waking up in the middle of the night and pulling Hayden’s warm, naked body closer.
Figure that one out.
“Remind me to keep you away from my daughter,” Becker said with a sigh.
Next to him, Jones guffawed. “So who’s the lucky lady? Or did you even get her name?”
Brody’s back stiffened defensively, but then he wondered why it bothered him that his teammates still viewed him as a playboy. Sure, he’d been a playboy, once upon a time. When he’d first gone pro, he couldn’t help letting it all go to his head. For a kid who’d grown up dirt-poor in Michigan, the sudden onslaught of wealth and attention was like a drug. Exciting. Addictive. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be his friend, his confidant, his lover. At twenty-one, he’d welcomed every perk that came with the job—particularly the endless stream of women lining up to sit on his dick.
But it got old once he’d realized that 90 percent of those eager girls cared only about his uniform. To make matters worse, he’d suddenly found his face all over social media and the sports gossip websites. Pictures of him leaving a club with a different woman each night. A compromising shot of him with his tongue down the caterer’s throat at a team event.
The Warriors’ PR people eventually pulled him into the head office and told him to tone it the fuck down or he’d be cut from the team, star player or not. It scared him enough that he’d kept his extracurriculars more covert from that point on. But he hadn’t stopped fucking around altogether.
These days, he didn’t mind being in the limelight, but he was no longer interested in going to bed with women who thought of him only as the star forward of the Warriors.
Unfortunately, his teammates couldn’t seem to accept that he’d left his fuckboy days in the dust.
Ah, well. Let them believe what they wanted. He might not be a Casanova anymore, but he could still kick their asses any day of the week.
“Yes, I got her name,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Just not her number.
He kept that irksome detail to himself. He still wasn’t sure why it bugged him, Hayden’s refusal to give him her phone number. And for the life of him, he also couldn’t make sense of that bomb of a speech she’d dropped on him earlier.
I had a great time, but this isn’t happening again. I hope you understand.
Every man’s dream words. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d tried to find a way to let a woman down gently when she asked for something more the morning after. Hayden had pretty much summed up the attitude he’d had about sex his entire life. One night, no expectations, nothing more. In the old days he would’ve sent her a fruit basket with a thank-you card for her casual dismissal.
But these days he wanted more than that. That was why he’d gone to Hayden’s hotel room after avoiding random hookups for months now. Because something about her made him think she was the one who could give him the more he desired. A sexy professor who hated sports and set his body on fire? Talk about his dream girl.
“Hope you didn’t tire yourself out,” Becker said. “We can’t afford to screw up tonight, not in the playoffs.”
