“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.
