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He also knew she wouldn’t call.
You got cocky, man.
Was that it? Had he been so confident in his ability to turn Hayden on that he just assumed she’d want him to do it again?
Damn it, why hadn’t he taken her home with him? He’d seen the lust in her gorgeous eyes, known that all he had to do was say the word and she’d be in his arms again, but he’d held back. No, pride had held him back. He hadn’t wanted to go to bed with her knowing he’d coerced her into joining him for that drink. He’d wanted it to be her choice, her terms, her desire.
It was almost comical, how this conservative art history professor had gotten under his skin. She was so different from the women he’d dated in the past. Smarter, prettier, more serious, definitely more pigheaded. She annoyed him; she excited him; she made him laugh. He knew he should just let her go since she obviously didn’t want to pursue a relationship, but his instincts kept screaming for him not to let her out of his sight, that if he blinked, she’d be gone, and someone very important would be slipping through his grasp. It made no sense to him, and yet he’d always trusted his instincts. They’d never failed him before.
He kicked a pebble on his way to the car, feeling like kicking something harder than a rock. His own thick skull, perhaps.
He pressed a button on the remote to unlock the doors, then swore when he realized his wrist was bare. Shoot. He must have left his watch back at the practice arena. He always seemed to misplace the damn thing. He hated wearing a watch to begin with, but it had been a gift from his parents in honor of his first professional game eight years ago. Chris and Jane Croft were ferociously proud of their son, and he witnessed that pride every time he went back to Michigan for a visit and saw them staring at that watch.
Sighing, he turned around and headed back to the entrance of the sprawling gray building. The Warriors practiced in a private arena a few miles from the Lincoln Center, a little un-orthodox but Brody found it somewhat of a relief. It meant the media never filmed their practices, which took the pressure off the players to always be on top of their game.
The double doors at the entrance led to a large sterile lobby. A blue door to the right opened onto the rink. To the left were the hallways leading to the locker rooms, and when Brody strode into the arena he immediately noticed the two people huddled by the locker-room corridor. Their backs were turned, and Brody quickly sidestepped to the right, ducking into another hall that featured a row of vending machines.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” came Craig Wyatt’s somber voice.
Brody sucked in a breath, hoping the Warriors captain and his companion hadn’t spotted him.
He’d sure as hell spotted them, though.
Which posed the question: what was Craig Wyatt doing whispering with Sheila Houston?
“I know. I just had to see you,” Sheila said, her voice so soft Brody had to strain his ears to hear her. “That meeting with the lawyers today was terrible…” There was a faint sob.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby.”
Baby?
Deciding he’d officially heard enough—and that he’d return for his watch another time—Brody edged toward the emergency exit at the end of the hallway. He turned the door handle, praying an alarm wouldn’t go off. It didn’t. Relieved, he exited the side door of the building and practically sprinted back to his car.
The drive to his Hyde Park home brought with it a tornado of confusion that made his head spin. Craig Wyatt and Sheila Houston? The player rumored to be having an affair with the owner’s wife was Wyatt? Brody would’ve never expected it from the straight-laced Mr. Serious.
If it was true, then that meant the idea of bribes exchanging hands in the franchise might not be a lie after all. Craig Wyatt might have the personality of a brick wall, but he was the captain of the team, as well as the eyes and ears. He frequently kept track of everyone’s progress, making sure they were all in tiptop shape and focused on the game. If he suspected anyone had taken a bribe, he would’ve investigated it, no doubt about it.
Jeez, was Wyatt the source Sheila had referred to in that interview? Had he been the one to tell her about the bribes?
Or…
Shit, had Wyatt taken a bribe himself? No, that didn’t make sense. Sheila wouldn’t draw attention to the bribery and illegal betting if her lover was one of the guilty parties.
Brody steered into his driveway and killed the engine. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off an oncoming headache.
Damn. This was not good at all.
He didn’t particularly care what or who Craig Wyatt did in his spare time, but if Wyatt knew something about these rumors…