“Becker! Croft!” a man yelled, practically poking his entire bald head between two of the gate’s bars. “Any comment on the allegations that Presley Houston fixed Warriors games and...”
Brody tuned the guy out, choosing instead to follow Becker up the front steps toward the entrance of the club.
“Fuck, I hate this place,” Becker muttered as they entered the foyer.
“How’d you get to be a member anyway?” Brody asked the question without caring too much about the answer.
He’d much rather talk to Becker about Craig Wyatt and the possibility that he was the one who’d come forward, but his teammate’s body language clearly said he didn’t want to discuss the reporters or the scandal. His massive shoulders were tight, his square jaw clenched. Brody could understand. He’d been feeling tense himself ever since he’d watched that news story with Hayden.
And yesterday’s loss against Colorado hadn’t helped. Losing a playoffs game was bad, but losing 5–0 was pathetic. They’d played like a team of amateurs, and though nobody had brought up the scandal, Brody knew it was on their minds. He’d found himself glancing around the locker room, wondering which one of the guys had confessed to knowing about the bribes.
“My wife is involved with one of Jonas Quade’s charity foundations,” Becker was saying. “When he offered to put in a good word for me with the members’ committee, Mary pretty much threatened divorce unless I joined.” Becker muttered a curse. “I’m telling you, man, she’s not a nice person.”
He snorted. “You must have seen something good in her considering you married the woman.”
“These days? I’m not sure I remember what that something was.”
Concern flickered through him. “Everything okay on the home front?”
Becker was quick to reassure him. “Oh, ignore me. Mary and I are good. I’m just being dramatic.”
The two men entered the massive ballroom, and Brody’s eyes instantly began darting around the room.
“Is she here?” Becker asked with a sigh.
He blinked. “Who?”
“Come on, Croft. Only reason you dragged me here is because I belong to this pretentious society of snobs and you needed to score an invite. And since you’re no social climber, that means you came here to see Houston’s daughter. Which, by the way, is still a terrible idea.”
“Is it really, though?”
Becker accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Beyond terrible, kid. You don’t want to get involved with a Houston, not while this betting bullshit is going on.”
His tuxedo jacket suddenly felt too tight. “Hayden has nothing to do with that. She’s just visiting from California.”
“And if the media finds out you’re sleeping with her, they’ll start drooling. It’ll be all over the headlines, how Pres’s daughter is screwing one of the star players in order to shut him up.”
“You say that as if you think there’s something I need shutting up about.” The hairs on the back of Brody’s neck stood on end. “Sam...do you know something about this bribery shit?”
“No, of course not.”
“You sure?” He hesitated. “You didn’t... You didn’t take a bribe, did you?”
Becker looked as if he’d been struck. His mouth dropped open. “Seriously? You actually think I’d take a fucking bribe? I’ve been playing in this league for half my life. Trust me, I earn enough.”
Brody relaxed. “I didn’t think you took a bribe,” he said, trying to inject reassurance into his voice. “But what you just said...it sounds like you know more about this scandal than the rest of us. Did Pres tell you anything?”
Though he looked calm now, the vein on Becker’s forehead continued to throb. “I don’t know anything,” he said firmly.
“Well, I think I might,” Brody found himself confessing.
Becker’s head jerked up. “What are you talking about?”
Although this was probably not the time, and definitely not the place, Brody told Becker about what he’d seen at the rink. He spoke in a hushed tone, revealing his suspicions that Sheila Houston had confided in Craig Wyatt about whatever it was she knew, and that Wyatt was the one who’d spoken to the league.
He finished with, “Do you think I should do something?”
The other man released a ragged breath, looking a bit shell-shocked. “Honestly? I think it would be a bad idea.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You don’t want to get involved,” Becker warned in a low voice. “You’ll only cast suspicion on yourself.”
He mulled over his friend’s advice, knowing Becker did have a point. But then he thought of the team captain, and how subdued Wyatt had been lately. Sure, Wyatt was perpetually serious, but he’d barely spoken a word to anyone in weeks, and when he did, it was to yell at them for making a mistake on the ice. Brody got the feeling Wyatt might be in need of a friend, and as reluctant as he was to get involved, he wasn’t sure he could watch a teammate struggle without doing a thing to help.
But Becker remained firm. “Don’t confront Craig, kid. If it bothers you this much, I’ll talk to him, okay?”
He glanced at his friend in surprise. “You’d really do that?”
Becker gave a faint smile and said, “Unlike my old-timer self, you’ve still got a lot of years ahead of you. I don’t want to see your career tank just because Presley Houston might’ve decided he needed some extra cash.”
“My two favorite players!”
Speak of the devil.
Brody shot Becker a look of gratitude, then pasted on a smile as Presley approached them, holding a glass of champagne in his hand. Considering there were reporters outside just dying to roast Pres for these bribery charges, the man seemed surprisingly jovial. Either the allegations didn’t concern him, or he was doing a damn good job covering up his distress.
“Having a good time?” Pres asked.
