“You must have seen something good in her considering you married the woman.”
“Yeah, I did see something.” Becker’s rugged features softened. “My soul mate.”
The two men entered the massive ballroom, and Brody’s eyes instantly began darting around the room.
“So what’s her name?” Becker asked with a sigh.
He blinked. “What?”
“Come on, Croft. Only reason you dragged me here is because I belong to this pretentious society of snobs and you needed to score an invite. And since you’re no social climber, that means you came here to see a woman. So what’s her name?”
“Hayden,” he admitted.
Becker accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Is she a member of Chicago’s high society?”
“Kind of.” He hesitated. “She’s Presley’s daughter.”
Becker paused mid-sip. “As in the daughter of Presley Houston, the man who signs our paychecks?”
“Yep.”
“Bad idea, man. You don’t want to get involved with a Houston, not while this betting bullshit is going on.”
Brody’s tuxedo jacket suddenly felt too tight. “Hayden has nothing to do with that. She’s just visiting from California.”
“And if the media finds out you’re sleeping with her, they’ll start drooling. It’ll be all over the headlines, how Pres’s daughter is screwing one of the star players on the team in order to shut him up.”
The hairs on the back of Brody’s neck stood on end. “You say that as if you think there’s something I need shutting up about. Sam…do you know something about this bribery crap?”
“No, of course not.”
“You sure?” He hesitated. “You didn’t…you didn’t take a bribe, did you?”
Becker looked as if he’d been shot by a bazooka. His mouth dropped open, his cheeks reddened and a vein popped out in his forehead. “You actually think I’d take a fucking bribe? I’ve been playing in this league for half my life. Trust me, I earn enough.”
Brody relaxed. “I didn’t think you took a bribe,” he said, trying to inject reassurance into his voice. “But what you just said…it sounds like you know more about this scandal than the rest of us. Did Pres tell you anything?”
Though he looked calm now, the vein on Becker’s forehead continued to throb. He seemed uncomfortable, scanning the room like that of a prisoner scouting out an escape route. “I don’t know anything,” he finally said.
“Well, I think I might,” Brody found himself confessing.
Becker’s head jerked up. “What are you talking about?”
Although this was probably not the time, and definitely not the place, Brody told Becker about what he’d seen at the arena the other day. He spoke in a hushed tone, revealing his suspicions that Sheila Houston had confided in Craig Wyatt about whatever it was she knew, and that Wyatt was the one who’d spoken to the league. He finished with, “So do you think I should do something?”
The other man released a ragged breath. He looked a bit shell-shocked. “Honestly? I think it would be a bad idea.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You don’t want to get involved,” Becker warned in a low voice. “You’ll only cast suspicion on yourself.”
He mulled over his friend’s advice, knowing Becker did have a point. But then he thought of the team captain, and how subdued Wyatt had been lately. Wyatt had always been serious, but he’d barely spoken a word to anyone in weeks, and when he did, it was to yell at them for making a mistake out on the ice. Brody got the feeling Craig Wyatt might very well be in need of a friend, and as reluctant as he was to get involved, he wasn’t sure he could watch a teammate struggle without doing a thing to help.
But Becker remained firm. “Don’t confront Craig, kiddo. If it bothers you this much, I’ll talk to him, okay?”
He glanced at his friend in surprise. “You’d really do that?”
With a playful punch to Brody’s arm, Becker gave a faint smile and said, “Unlike my old-timer self, you’ve still got a lot of years ahead of you. I don’t want to see your career tank just because Presley Houston might’ve decided he needed some extra cash.”
“My two favorite players!”
Speak of the devil. Brody shot Becker a look of gratitude, then pasted on a smile as Presley approached them, holding a glass of champagne in his large hand. Considering there were reporters outside just dying to roast Pres for these bribery charges, the man seemed surprisingly jovial. Either the allegations didn’t concern him, or he was doing a damn good job covering up his distress.