“Hey, d’you guys get a look at the Tribute sports page this morning?” Jones asked suddenly. “There was another article about the bribery accusations Houston’s wife made.” He frowned, an expression that didn’t suit his baby face. At twenty, the kid hadn’t mastered his badass hockey glare yet. “Like any of us would take money to purposely put a loss on our record. Fuck, I want to toilet paper that chick’s house for all the trouble she’s causing.”
Brody laughed. “Grown men don’t toilet paper people’s homes.”
“C’mon, you like my pranks,” Derek protested. “You were laughing your ass off when I replaced Alexi’s pads with those pink Hello Kitty ones.”
From across the room, Alexi gave Jones the finger.
“Simmer down, children,” Becker said with a grin. He turned to Brody, his eyes suddenly growing serious. “What do you think about the articles?”
Brody just shrugged. “Until I see the proof Mrs. Houston allegedly has, I refuse to believe anybody on this team threw a game.”
Jones nodded his agreement. “Pres is a good dude. He’d never fix games.” He chuckled. “I’m more intrigued by the other allegation. You know, the one from an unnamed source claiming that Mrs. H is banging a Warriors player?”
What the hell?
Brody hadn’t been online today, so this was news to him. The idea that the owner’s wife was sleeping with one of his teammates was both startling and absurd. And worrisome. Definitely worrisome. He didn’t like how this scandal seemed to be snowballing. Bribery, adultery, illegal gambling.
Shit.
Jones turned to Brody. “Come on, admit it. It was you.”
Yeah, right. The thought of hopping into the sack with Sheila Houston was about as appealing as trading in his hockey skates for figure skates. He’d only needed a handful of encounters with the woman to figure out she had nothing but air between her ears.
“Nah. My bet’s on Topas.” Brody grinned at the dark-haired right-winger across the room. Zelig Topas, who’d won Olympic silver playing on Team Canada at the last Games, was also one of the few openly gay players in the league.
“Funny,” Topas returned, rolling his eyes.
The chatter died down when Craig Wyatt, their team captain, strode into the room, his Nordic features solemn as always. Wyatt stood at a massive height of six-seven, and that was in his shoes. On skates he was a sheer monster. With his bulky torso and blond buzz cut, it was no wonder Wyatt was one of the most feared players in the league and a force to contend with.
Without asking what all the laughter was about, Wyatt dived right into his usual pregame pep talk, which was about as peppy as a eulogy. There was a reason Wyatt was nicknamed Mr. Serious. Brody had only seen the guy smile once, and even then it was one of those awkward half smiles you pasted on when someone was telling you a really unfunny joke.
Needless to say, he’d never clicked with his somber captain. He tended to gravitate toward laid-back guys like Becker and Jones.
Promptly tuning out the captain’s voice, he proceeded to rehash this morning’s conversation with Hayden, musing over her insistence that they leave things at one night. He understood wanting to end with a bang but...
Nope, wasn’t going to happen.
Hayden might’ve neglected to hand out her number, but she’d left her calling card by inviting him to her hotel suite. After tonight’s game Brody planned on calling her room at the Ritz and convincing her to continue what they’d started last night.
Just one night?
Nah. He was a hockey player. He didn’t give up that easy.
SEVEN
“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.
