8
“I REALLY WISH you hadn’t dragged me here,” Sam Becker groaned as he drove his shiny silver Lexus in the direction of the Gallagher Club. “My wife is pissed.”
“Come on, Mary doesn’t have a ‘pissed’ bone in her body,” Brody replied, thinking of the tiny, delicate woman who’d been married to Sam for fifteen years.
“That’s what she wants you to think. Trust me, behind closed doors she’s not very nice.”
Brody laughed.
“I swear, she almost tore my head off when I told her I was going out with you tonight. It was last-minute, so we couldn’t get a babysitter for Tamara. Mary had to cancel her plans. I’ll never hear the end of this. Thanks a lot, kiddo.”
Sam’s words might have evoked guilt in some men, but Brody couldn’t muster any. For two days he’d been trying to come up with a way to see Hayden and make things right. Sure, he could’ve just called her, but the way things had ended at the penthouse the other night left him cautious.
Hayden had mentioned she’d be at the Gallagher Club tonight, and he’d spent the entire afternoon wondering how he could show up there without appearing desperate. The answer had come to him during a call from Becker, who’d phoned to discuss a charity event they were participating in next month.
Brody wasn’t a member of the Gallagher Club, but Becker was, so Brody had promptly ordered his best bud to brush the dust off his tuxedo.
He felt bad that Becker had been raked over the coals by his wife, but he’d make it up to him.
“Why didn’t you get Lucy to watch Tamara?” Brody asked. He’d been over to Becker’s house dozens of times, and had spent quite a bit of time with Becker’s two daughters. Lucy was fourteen, ten years older than her sister Tamara, but it had been obvious to Brody how much the teenager loved her baby sister.
“Lucy has a—God help me—” Becker groaned “—boyfriend. They’re at the movies tonight.”
Brody hooted. “You actually let her leave the house with the guy?”
“I had no choice. Mary said I couldn’t threaten him with a shotgun.” Becker sighed. “And speaking of shotguns, she told me to put one to your head if you didn’t agree to spend a week at our lake house this summer. She renovated the entire place and is dying to show it off.”
Brody usually tried to spend the entire summer in Michigan with his parents, but for Becker, he was willing to alter his plans. “Tell your wife I’ll be there. Just name the date.”
Becker suddenly slowed the car. “Oh, shit.”
A small crowd of reporters hovered in front of the gates of the Gallagher Club. A few turned their heads at the Lexus’s approach.
Rolling up the windows, Becker turned to Brody and said, “Obviously the vultures are following dear old Pres.”
Brody suppressed a groan. “Are you surprised? Someone on the team came forward and confirmed the rumors. The press is salivating.”
Becker drove through the gate and stopped in front of the waiting valet. Lips tight, he got out of the car without a word.
The second Brody’s feet connected with the cobblestone driveway, one of the reporters shouted at them from the gate.
“Becker! Croft!” a man yelled, practically poking his entire bald head between two of the gate’s bars. “Any comment on the allegations that Presley Houston fixed Warriors games and…”
Brody tuned the guy out, choosing instead to follow Becker up the front steps toward the entrance of the club.
“Jeez, I hate this place,” Becker muttered as they entered the foyer.
“How’d you get to be a member anyway?” Brody asked the question without caring too much about the answer. He’d much rather talk to Becker about Craig Wyatt and the possibility that he was the one who’d come forward, but Becker’s body language clearly said he didn’t want to discuss the reporters or the scandal. His massive shoulders were tight, his square jaw clenched. Brody could understand. He’d been feeling tense himself ever since he’d watched that news story with Hayden.
And yesterday’s loss in Los Angeles hadn’t helped. Losing a play-off game was bad, but losing 6–0 was pathetic. The Warriors had played like a team of amateurs, and though nobody had spoken about the scandal, Brody knew it was on their minds. He’d found himself glancing around the locker room, wondering which one of the guys had confessed to knowing about the bribes.
“My wife is involved with one of Jonas Quade’s charity foundations,” Becker was saying in response Brody’s question. “When he offered to put in a good word for me with the members’ committee, Mary pretty much threatened divorce unless I joined.” Becker muttered a curse. “I’m telling you, man, she’s not a nice person.”