Becker’s response came faster than he expected. Usually, the man didn’t check his phone much when he was at home with his family. Sam always said that time with his daughters was far more important to him than looking at a “damn screen.”
BECKER: Didn’t I just see you at practice?
BRODY: I know. It’s important, though.
Brody could see his friend typing, and those three dots rippled in the chat thread for quite a while before another message finally popped up.
BECKER: Yeah sure. I’ll be there after Tamara’s bedtime. Around 8.
BRODY: Sounds good. See you later.
He let his teammate in a few hours later, grinning when Sam shrugged out of his jacket and splashed water droplets all over Brody’s face. “Thanks,” he said wryly.
“It’s raining like crazy out there,” Becker grumbled. “You better have a good excuse for dragging me over here tonight.”
“Trust me, it’s a good one.”
He tossed Becker’s coat on one of the hooks in the front hall. The two men headed for the kitchen, where Brody grabbed a pair of beer bottles and handed his friend one.
“What’s this?” Sam asked, peering at the open laptop on the white granite counter. “Is it your mom’s birthday or something?”
Brody swiftly walked over and flipped the computer shut. Fuck. He’d left the florist website tab open when he went to answer the door. “Oh. Yeah. It’s for Mother’s Day.”
“Mother’s Day was last weekend.” Sam leaned his jean-clad hip against the counter, chuckling.
“Right. And I forgot to send my mom flowers, hence the belated Mother’s Day gift.”
“You’re such a shit liar.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Who says I’m lying?”
“Kid, it was my assistant who arranged the flower deliveries for both our mothers.”
Oh, right. Fucking hell.
Sam laughed harder at the defeated look on Brody’s face. “So who are the flowers for?”
Sighing, he lifted the beer to his lips and took a long swig. “Take a seat. This might take a while.”
His friend gave an answering sigh. “Seriously? You brought me over here to talk about your love life?”
Technically, he hadn’t. But now that Becker was here, he might as well hit the man up for some advice. Sam had been happily married for the past fifteen years, so clearly the dude knew a thing or two about relationships.
“Not just that, but we can get into the rest of it later,” Brody said as he collapsed onto the leather sectional in the living room. “I did a dumb thing.”
“What else is new?”
“Fuck off.”
Sam sank into the recliner opposite the couch, balancing his bottle on his knee. “Fine. I’ll bite. What did you do?”
“Presley Houston’s daughter.”
There was a beat, and then Becker barked out a laugh. “Fuck’s sake.”
“See? I told you it was dumb.” He took another hasty sip of beer. “In my defense, I didn’t know she was his daughter when I hooked up with her.”
“So, what, now you’re worried he’s going to find out and bench you indefinitely?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Because that ain’t gonna happen, kid. We’re playing our next game two nights from now. He’s not going to risk not having his pretty boy superstar on the ice for it.”
“First of all, I’m not his superstar. That’s Wyatt.”
Fuck, which was who they should be talking about right now. He’d asked Becker to come by so he could tell him about Craig Wyatt and Sheila Houston, not to whine about his sex life.
“I notice you didn’t deny the pretty boy part.”
Brody grinned. “Why would I? It’s true. Anyway, Pres finding out is a concern, yeah. I don’t think he’d bench me, but he definitely wouldn’t be happy about it. Dude used to be a coach. I don’t know a single coach who’d be cool with their daughter hooking up with a hockey player. Unless it’s you. You’re so pathetically perfect, any dad would happily marry their little girl off to you.”
“Did you ask me over here for advice or to insult me?”
“I said you were perfect, you asshole. How is that an insult?”
Becker snickered. “Are you ever going to get to the point of this conversation?”
Setting his beer on the coffee table, Brody quickly filled his teammate in about his two encounters with Hayden, and how both had ended with her not calling him. Becker’s shit-eating grin at hearing this didn’t make him feel any better.
“You could at least pretend to sympathize,” Brody grumbled.
“Seriously? I’ve spent the last eight years watching women fall at your feet. Remember the chick that broke into your hotel room when we were playing Denver and handcuffed herself to your bed? Oh, fuck, or the twin sisters in San Jose who got your name tattooed on their ass cheeks and then tried to lure you into a threesome in the rooftop pool?”
