“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.”