Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
He kicked a pebble on his way to the car, feeling like kicking something harder than a rock. His own thick skull, perhaps.
As he unlocked the driver’s-side door, he swore when he realized his wrist was bare. Shit. He’d left his watch in the rink. He always forgot that 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. His folks were ferociously proud of him, and he witnessed that pride every time he went home to Michigan for a visit and saw them staring at that watch.
Sighing, he turned 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. It was a little unorthodox, but Brody found it somewhat of a relief. It meant the media never filmed their practices, which took the pressure off him and the guys to always be on top of their game.
The double doors at the entrance led to a large sterile lobby. 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, allowing Brody to quickly sidestep to the right, ducking into another hall with a row of vending machines.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” came Craig Wyatt’s muffled voice.
Brody hissed in a breath, hoping the Warriors captain and his companion hadn’t spotted him.
He 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 rink and practically sprinted back to his BMW.
The drive to his Hyde Park house 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 straitlaced Mr. Serious.
Fuck. And if that rumor was true, that meant the idea of bribes exchanging hands in the franchise might not be a lie, either. 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 tip-top shape and focused on the game. If he suspected anyone had taken a bribe, he would’ve investigated it, no doubt about it.
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 pulled 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 it. 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…
Maybe he should just confront the man, flat out ask what he knew. Or maybe he’d ask Becker to do it for him. Becker was good at stuff like that, knew how to handle tough situations and still keep a clear head.
He rubbed his temples, then leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. Fuck, he didn’t want to deal with any of this. If he had his way, this entire scandal would just disappear; he’d play out the rest of the season then re-sign with the Warriors or land on a new team. His career would be secure, and his life would be just fucking peachy.
Oh, and Hayden Houston would be back in his bed.
But her name was still conspicuously absent from his phone, the lack of notifications revealing he clearly hadn’t won her over with the Lakeshore Lounge orgasm.
As he walked up the porch steps to his front door, he typed out a quick text to Becker.
BRODY: Any chance you can make it over for a beer tonight? Need to talk to you about something.
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.”