“HOW MANY?” Darcy demanded the next day.
Hayden moved her cell phone to her other ear and maneuvered her rental car through afternoon traffic. Chicago’s downtown core was surprisingly busy; tonight’s Warriors game had probably compelled more than a few people to leave work early. Hayden, on the other hand, didn’t have a choice in the matter. Whether she wanted to or not, she was about to spend the evening sitting next to her dad in the owner’s box, watching a sport she not only found dismally boring, but one she’d resented for years.
God, she couldn’t even count how many games she’d been dragged to over the years. Hundreds? Thousands? Regardless of the final tally, she was no closer to liking hockey now, at twenty-six, than she had been at age six, when her father took her to her first game. To her, hockey meant constant uprooting. Traveling, moving, sitting behind the bench with a coloring book because her dad hadn’t felt right hiring a nanny.
A shrink would probably tell her that she was projecting, taking out her frustration with her father on an innocent little sport, but she couldn’t help it. No matter how hard she’d tried over the years, she couldn’t bring herself to appreciate or enjoy the damn game.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” she said into her cell, stopping at a red light. An El train whizzed overhead, momentarily making her deaf to anything but the thundering of the train as it tore down the tracks.
“Like hell you don’t,” Darcy was saying when the noise died down. “How many, Hayden?”
Suppressing a tiny smile, she finally caved in. “Five.”
“Five!” Darcy went silent for a moment. Then she offered an awe-laced obscenity. “You’re telling me the hunk gave you five orgasms last night?”
“He sure did.” The memory alone brought a spark of heat to her still-exhausted body. Muscles she hadn’t even known she had were still aching, thanks to the man who could definitely give the Energizer Bunny a run for its money.
“I’m stunned. You realize that? I’m utterly stunned.”
The light ahead turned green and Hayden drove through the intersection. A group of teenagers wearing blue and silver Warriors jerseys caught her attention, and she groaned at the sight of them. She was so not in the mood to watch a night of rowdy hockey with her father.
“So how was the big goodbye and ‘thanks for the five O’s’?” Darcy asked.
“Strange.” She made a left turn and drove down Lakeshore Drive toward the Lincoln Center, the brand-new arena recently built for the Warriors. “Before he left, he asked for my number.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No.” She sighed. “But then he offered me his number, so I took it.”
“It was supposed to be a one-night stand!”
“Yeah…but…he looked so dismayed. I made it pretty clear that it was a one-night thing. You’d think he’d be thrilled about that. No strings, no expectations. But he was disappointed.”
“You can’t see him again. What if things get serious? You’ll be going back to the West Coast in a couple months.”
Darcy sounded surprisingly upset. Well, maybe it wasn’t that surprising, seeing as Darcy found the idea of falling in love more petrifying than the Ebola virus. The phobia had taken form a few years ago, after Darcy’s father broke up his marriage of twenty years by falling in love with another woman. Since then Darcy had convinced herself the same would happen to her. Hayden had tried to assure her friend that not all men left their wives, but her words always fell on deaf ears.
“Nothing will get serious,” Hayden said with a laugh. “First of all, I probably won’t see Brody again. And second, I won’t allow myself to develop a relationship with any man until I figure out where things stand with Doug.”
Darcy groaned. “Him? Why do you continue to keep him in the picture? Turn your break into a breakup, before he mentions the intimacy bridge and—”
“Goodbye, Darce.”
She hung up, not in the mood to hear Darcy make fun of Doug again. Fine, so he was conservative, and maybe his comparison of sex to a bridge was bizarre, but Doug was a decent man. And she wasn’t ready to write him off completely.
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 last night was neither bland nor mundane. It had been crazy. Intense. Mind-numbingly wild and deliciously 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.
But what else should she have done? She’d woken up to find Brody’s smoky-blue eyes admiring her and before she could even utter a good-morning he’d slipped his hand between her legs. Stroked, rubbed, and brought her to orgasm in less than a minute. As a result, she’d forgotten her name, her surroundings and the reason she’d brought him home in the first place.
Fortunately, the amnesia had been temporary. Her memory had swiftly returned when she’d checked her cell phone messages and saw that both her father and Doug had called.
Brody had made it clear he wanted to see her again, and sure, that would be nice…okay, it would be freaking 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-night stand.
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 had 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 her dad 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, and 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 locker.
“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.
And what had impressed him the most was Becker’s complete lack of arrogance. Despite winning two championship cups and having a career that rivaled Gretzky’s, 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, kiddo.”
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. The Warriors 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 most exciting 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 swooped her off the hallway floor and carried her into the bedroom—where he’d proceeded to make love to 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 had 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 confidante, his lover. At twenty-one, he’d welcomed every perk that came with the job—particularly the endless stream of women lining up to warm his bed.
But it’d gotten old once he’d realized that ninety percent of those eager females cared most about his uniform. 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 playboy days in the dust. It was probably a label thing; the guys on the team liked labels. They all had ’em—Derek Jones was the Prankster, Becker was the Elder, Craig Wyatt was Mr. Serious. And Brody was the Playboy. Apparently admitting otherwise screwed up the team dynamic or something.
Ah, well. Let them believe what they wanted. He might not be a Casanova anymore but he could still kick their butts 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’d rather we didn’t see each other again. I had a great time, but I never had any intention of this going beyond one night. 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’s why he’d gone back to Hayden’s hotel room, because something about the woman 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. Almost made him want to call up that Sports Illustrated interviewer and get a retraction printed: Brody Croft is no longer attracted to leggy blondes.
“Hope you didn’t tire yourself out,” Becker said. “We can’t afford to screw up tonight, not in the play-offs.”
“Hey, d’you guys get a look at the paper 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 chubby, Leave It to Beaver face. At twenty-one, the kid hadn’t mastered his supertough hockey glare yet. “Like any of us would take money to purposely put a loss on our record. Damn, I want to toilet paper that chick’s house for all the trouble she’s causing.”
Brody laughed. “When are you going to grow out of these pranks? 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, their goalie Alexi Nicklaus 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 paused, then chuckled. “Actually, I’m more intrigued by the other allegation. You know, the one from an unnamed source claiming that Mrs. H is hitting the sheets with a Warriors player?”
Huh? Brody hadn’t read the paper yet, and 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.”
Uh, right. The thought of hopping into the sack with Sheila Houston was about as appealing as trading in his hockey skates for figure skates and joining the Stars on Ice. He’d only needed a handful of encounters with the woman to figure out she had nothing but air between her pretty little ears.
“Nah. My bet’s on Topas.” Brody grinned at the dark-haired right wing across the room. Zelig Topas, who’d won Olympic silver playing on the Russian team 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 as Craig Wyatt, the captain of the Warriors, strode into the room, his Nordic features solemn as always. Wyatt stood at a massive height of six-seven, and that was in his street shoes. 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 dove 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 un-funny joke.
Needless to say, Brody had 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 strolling right back to the Ritz and continuing what he and Hayden had started last night. Just one night?
Not if he could help it.
“THERE’S NOTHING BETTER than this,” Presley Houston boomed as he handed his daughter a bottle of Evian and joined her by the glass 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 Sea World. 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?”
Uh, because I hate hockey and always have?
“I don’t have the time. I was teaching four 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, 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. It 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 off-season, giving her that painful birds-and-bees talk kids always got from their parents.
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 bosom buddies—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 six months ago 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…Diane 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?”
Uh, 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 had 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 her father 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.
“Do I really have to get involved in this, Dad?” she asked, sighing.
“It’s just one deposition, sweetheart. All you have 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 came as naturally to him as the ability to give birth.
“This won’t go to court, will it?” Her stomach turned at the thought.
“I doubt it.” He ruffled her hair again. “Diane 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 great, Dad.”
She had no clue about 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. Coach Gray 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, I’m-the-best, no-I’m-the-best. 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 lies, Hayden. 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 dark 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 freaking 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 second 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.
On his way to the door he checked his watch, which read nine forty-five. Too late to pay a visit to Hayden’s penthouse suite? Probably. Maybe inappropriate, too, but, hell, he’d never been one for propriety. Hayden had been on his mind all day and he was determined to see her again.
“Later, boys,” he called over his shoulder.
The door closed behind him and he stepped into the brightly lit hallway, promptly colliding with a warm wall of curves.
“I’m sor—” The apology died in his throat as he laid eyes on the woman he’d bodychecked.
Not just any woman, either, but the one he’d been thinking about—and getting hard over—all day.
A startled squeak flew out of her mouth. “You.”
His surprise quickly transformed into a rush of satisfaction and pleasure. “Me,” he confirmed.
Looking her up and down, Brody was taken aback by the prim white blouse she wore and the knee-length paisley 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 the conservative professor and less like the passionate vixen who’d cried out his name so many times last night. The shift was disconcerting.
“What are…you’re…” Hayden’s eyes darted to the sign on the door beside them. “You play for the Warriors?”
“Sure do.” He lifted one brow. “And I thought you said you weren’t a hockey fan.”
“I’m not. I…” Her voice trailed off.
What was she doing in this section of the arena? he suddenly wondered. Only folks associated with the franchise were allowed back here.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sweetheart,” boomed a male voice. “Shall we continue the tour—” Presley Houston broke out in a wide smile when he noticed Brody. “You played well out there tonight, Croft.”
“Thanks, Pres.” He looked from Hayden to Presley, wondering if he was missing something. Then a hot spurt of jealousy erupted in his gut as he realized that Presley had called Hayden sweetheart. Oh, man. Had he screwed around with Houston’s mistress?
A dose of anger joined the jealousy swirling through him. He eyed the woman he’d spent the night with, wanting to strangle her for hopping into bed with him when she was obviously very much taken, but Presley’s next words quickly killed the urge and brought with them another shock.
“I see you’ve met my daughter, Hayden.”