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.