Someone came up beside him, but he was watching the tailback so intently that several minutes passed before he looked over. When he turned, he didn’t instantly recognize the man, and he was about to tell him to get the hell off his practice field before he realized who it was.
“Ronald?”
“Coach.”
The kid didn’t look like himself; he looked like a South American gigolo. His hair was slicked back, and he wore dark glasses along with a black T-shirt, baggy slacks, and one of those boxy European sport coats with the collar turned up and the sleeves pushed to his elbows.
“Jesus, Ronald, what’d you do to yourself?”
“I’m unemployed. I don’t have to dress like a stiff anymore.”
Dan spotted a cigarette in the kid’s hand. “Since when do you smoke?”
“On and off. I just never thought it was a good idea to do it around the men.” He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gestured toward the field with his head. “You’re going with the new tailback sweep.”
“If Fenster can learn his left from his right.”
“Bucker looks good.”
Dan was still distracted by the changes in Ronald, not only the difference in his appearance, but his unusual composure. “He’s coming along.”
“So did Phoebe pick the new GM yet?” Ronald asked.
“Hell, no.”
“That’s what I figured.”
Dan made a snort of disgust. Phoebe’d had a list of candidates since the day she’d arrived more than a week ago, but instead of making a choice, she’d told him she wanted Ronald back. He’d reminded her they had an agreement and told her she’d damn well better live up to it or she could find herself another head coach. When she realized he meant it, she’d stopped arguing. But they had lost their final preseason game last weekend, and with their season opener against the Broncos this Sunday, she still hadn’t interviewed a single candidate.
Instead of working, she sat at the desk in Ronald’s old office and read fashion magazines. She wouldn’t use Bert’s office because she said she didn’t like the decor. When anybody gave her even the simplest form to sign, the bridge of her nose would pucker and she’d say she’d get to it later, but she never did. Monday, when he’d barged in on her because she’d somehow managed to hold up everybody’s paychecks, she’d been painting her goddamn fingernails! He’d gotten mad then, but he’d barely begun to yell before her lip had started to tremble and she’d said he couldn’t talk to her like that because she had PMS.
Sometime this week Phoebe had shot right past Valerie in her ability to make him crazy. NFL team owners were supposed to inspire a combination of respect, awe, and fear in their employees. Even seasoned head coaches tread warily around a man like Al Davis, the strong-willed owner of the Raiders. Dan knew he would never be able to hold his head up again if anybody ever found out that the owner of his team couldn’t stand any yelling because she had PMS!
She was, without a doubt, the most worthless, spineless, silliest excuse for a human being he’d ever met in his life. At first he’d wondered if she might not be smarter than she let on, but now he knew she was dumber than she’d let on, a world-class bimbo who was ruining his football team.
If only she didn’t have that drop-dead body. It was hard to ignore, even for someone like him, who’d seen just about everything a woman had to offer before he’d turned twenty-one. He knew the public thought life was one big orgy for professional football players, and they were pretty much right. Even now, when sex was fraught with danger, women lined up in hotel lobbies and stadium parking lots calling out to the players, flashing phone numbers written on their bare midriffs, sometimes flashing more.
He remembered his early playing days, when he’d picked up one, sometimes even two of them, and indulged in long, lost nights of Cutty and sex. He’d done things the rest of the male population had only dreamed about, but as the novelty had worn off, he’d begun to find something pathetic about those encounters. By the time he’d reached thirty, he’d replaced the football groupies with women who had more going for them than a hot body, and sex had once again been fun. Then he’d met Valerie and begun his current downward spiral. But that spiral was about to shift direction now that Sharon Anderson was in his life.
On Tuesday afternoon he’d managed to stop by the nursery school again to watch her with the kids and take her out for coffee after they’d left. She had some stains on her clothes that made him want to hug her: grape juice, paste, a streak of playground dirt. She was quiet and sweet, exactly what he wanted in a woman, which made his physical response to Phoebe Somerville even more aggravating. That female belonged in leather boots and a garter belt, as far away as possible from a bunch of innocent children.
Ronald propped his foot up on the bench and stared out at the practice field. “Phoebe keeps asking me to tell her who the best candidate for the GM job is.”
Dan gave him a sharp gaze. “You’ve seen her?”
“We—uh—spend a lot of time together.”
“Why?”
Ronald shrugged. “She trusts me.”
Dan never gave anything away, and he concealed his uneasiness. Was Phoebe responsible for the changes in Ronald? “I guess I didn’t realize that the two of you were friends.”
“Not exactly friends.” Ronald took a drag on his cigarette. “Women are funny about me. I guess Phoebe’s no exception.”
“What do you mean funny?”
“It’s the Cruise thing. Most men don’t notice, but women think I look like Tom Cruise.”
Dan gave a snort of disgust. First Bobby Tom decided he looked like a movie star and now Ronald. But then, as he studied Ron more closely, he couldn’t deny there was a vague resemblance.
“Yeah, I guess you do at that. I never noticed.”
“It makes women feel as if they can trust me. Among other things.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “It plays hell with your love life, I’ll tell you that.”
Dan’s instincts for danger were as well developed as a battle-hardened soldier’s, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
“How do you mean?” he said carefully.
“Women can be quite demanding.”
“I suppose I never thought of you as that much of a hound with the ladies.”
“I do all right.” He threw down his cigarette and ground it out beneath his shoe. “I’ve got to go. Good luck with Phoebe. She’s a real wildcat, and you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”
Dan had heard enough. Lashing out his arm, he caught Ronald by the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Cut out the cute stuff. What the hell’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Phoebe.”
“She’s an unusual lady.”
“What have you told her about the candidates for the GM job?”
Despite the grip Dan had on him, Ronald’s gaze was steady and disconcertingly confident. “I’ll tell you what I haven’t told her. I haven’t told her Andy Carruthers is the best man for the job.”
“You know he is.”
“Not if he can’t handle Phoebe.”
Dan slowly released him, and his voice was dangerously quiet. “Exactly what are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying I’ve got your butt in a sling, Dan, because right now the only person she trusts who knows a damned thing about football is me. And I got fired.”
“You deserved to be fired! You weren’t doing your job.”
“I got her to sign those contracts the first day, didn’t I? From what I hear, nobody else has been able to do that much.”
“You had time after Bert died to prove yourself, and you blew it. Nothing got done.”
“I didn’t have the authority to act because Phoebe wasn’t returning my phone calls.” He lit a fresh cigarette and had the nerve to smile. “But I’ll guarantee she returns them now.”
Dan’s temper ignited, and he grabbed a fistful of Ronald’s fancy European lapels. “You son of a bitch. You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”
He had to give the kid credit. His complexion went a little pale, but he held his ground. “That’s none of your business.”
“No more games. What are you after?”
“You’re not stupid, Dan. Figure it out for yourself.”
“You’re not getting your job back.”
“Then you’re in big trouble because Phoebe won’t do anything unless I tell her to.”
Dan clenched his teeth. “I ought to beat the shit out of you.”
Ronald swallowed hard. “I don’t think she’d like that. She’s crazy about my face.”
Dan thought furiously, but he could only come to one conclusion. Ronald had him pinned behind the line of scrimmage and nobody was open. It went against his grain to fall on the ball, but he didn’t seem to have a choice. Gradually, he let go of the kid’s shirt. “All right, you’ve got your job back for now. But you’d better control her or I’ll have your ass hanging inside out from the yard markers. Do you understand me?”
Ronald flicked his cigarette away and then lifted the collar of his sport coat with his thumbs. “I’ll think about it.”
Dumbfounded, Dan watched him walk away.
By the time Ronald reached his car, he had sweated right through his jacket. Dan! He’d called the coach Dan and he was still alive. Oh, God. Oh, Lord.
Between the cigarettes and a rapid heartbeat, he’d begun to hyperventilate. At the same time, he’d never felt better in his life. Settling into the driver’s seat, he grabbed the phone. After he fumbled with the buttons for a few moments, Phoebe came on the line.
He gasped for breath and pushed the videotape of Risky Business she had given him out from beneath his hip.
“We did it, Phoebe.”
“You’re kidding!” He could envision her wide, generous smile.
“I did exactly what you said.” He gasped. “And it worked. Except now I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“Take some deep breaths; I don’t want to lose you now.” She laughed. “I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I.” He was beginning to feel better. “Let me change my clothes and wash this grease out of my hair. Then I’ll be in.”
“It won’t be a minute too soon. We’ve got a ton of work here, and I don’t have the faintest idea what to do with any of it.” There was a short pause. “Uh-oh. I’ve got to go. I hear an ominous set of footsteps coming my way.”
Quickly hanging up, she grabbed her makeup mirror with a shaking hand and lifted her pinky to her eyebrow just as Dan exploded into her office. She caught a glimpse of her secretary’s startled face behind him before he slammed the door.
Her office window faced the practice fields, so she should have been used to his aggression by now. She’d seen him throw clipboards and charge onto the field when he didn’t like someone’s performance. She’d watched him hurl his unprotected body at a player in full equipment to demonstrate some mysterious football move. And once, when she’d been in the office late and all the players had left, she’d watched him do laps around the track wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and a pair of gray athletic shorts that had revealed a set of powerfully muscled legs.
Swallowing hard, she gazed up at him innocently. “Oh, my. The big bad wolf just blew my door down. What did I do now?”
“You win.”
“Goody. What’s the prize?”
“Ronald.” He grit his teeth. “I’ve decided I won’t stand in your way if you want to hire him back.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Not from my viewpoint.”
“Ron isn’t quite the incompetent you seem to think he is.”
“He’s a weenie.”
“Well, you’re a hot dog, so the two of you should get along just fine.”
He scowled, and then he let his eyes roam all over her with an insolence he had never before displayed. “Ronald sure figured out how to get what he wanted from you. But maybe there’s something you should know. Smart businesswomen don’t sleep with the men who work for them.”
Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, the jab hurt, and she had to force herself to give him a silky smile. “Jealous I chose him instead of you?”
“Nope. I’m just afraid you’ll move on to my players next.”
She clenched her fists, but before she could respond he had stalked from her office.
Ray Hardesty stood in the shadows of the pines outside the cyclone fence and watched Dan Calebow stride back onto the practice field. Ray had to be at work soon, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he coughed and lit another cigarette, disturbing the butts already on the ground as he shifted his feet. Some of them were fresh, but others had disintegrated in last week’s thunderstorms leaving behind only the swollen, yellowed filters.
Every day he told himself he wasn’t going to come here again, but he came back all the same. And every day when his wife asked him where he was going, he said True Value. He never came home with any hardware, but she kept on asking. It had gotten so he could barely stand the sight of her.
Ray rubbed the back of his hand over his stubbly jaw and wasn’t surprised when he felt nothing. The morning the police had come to the house to notify him that Ray Junior had died in a car crash, he’d stopped being able to tell the difference between hot and cold. His wife said it was temporary, but Ray knew it wasn’t, the same way he knew he’d never be able to watch his son play football for the Stars again. Ever since that morning, his senses had been confused. He’d watch television for hours only to realize he’d never turned up the volume. He’d pour salt into his coffee instead of sugar and not notice the taste until his mug was nearly empty.
Nothing was right any more. He’d been a big shot when Ray Junior was playing for the Stars. The guys he worked with, his neighbors, the boys at the bar, everybody had treated him with respect. Now they looked at him with pity. Now he was nothing, and it was all Calebow’s fault. If Ray Junior hadn’t been so upset about getting cut by the Stars, he wouldn’t have driven through that guardrail. Because of Calebow, Ray Senior couldn’t hold his head up any longer.
For months Ray Junior had been telling him how Calebow had it in for him, accusing him of drinking too much and being some kind of goddamn druggie just because he took a few steroids like everybody else in the NFL. Maybe Ray Junior had been a little wild, but that’s what had made him a great player. He sure as hell hadn’t been any goddamn druggie. Hale Brewster, the Stars’ former coach, had never complained. It was only when Brewster had been fired and Calebow had taken over that the trouble started.
Everybody had always commented on how much he and his son looked alike. Ray Junior’d also had a misshapen prizefighter’s face, with a big nose, small eyes, and bushy brows. But his son hadn’t lived long enough to get thick around the waist, and there hadn’t been any gray in his hair when they’d buried him.
Ray Senior’s life had been filled with disappointments. He thought about how he wanted to be a cop, but when he’d applied, it seemed like they wouldn’t take anybody but niggers. He’d wanted to marry a beautiful woman, but he’d ended up with Ellen instead. At first even Ray Junior had been a disappointment. But his old man had toughened him up, and by the kid’s senior year in high school, Ray had felt like a king as he sat in the stands and watched his boy play ball.
Now he was a nobody again.
He began to cough and it took him almost a minute to get the spasms under control. The doctors had told him a year ago to stop smoking because of his bad heart and the trouble with his lungs. They hadn’t come right out and told him he was dying, but he knew it anyway, and he didn’t much care anymore. All he cared about was getting even with Dan Calebow.
Ray Senior relished every Stars’ loss because it proved the team wasn’t worth shit without his kid. He had made up his mind that he was going to stay alive until the day everybody knew what a mistake that bastard had made by cutting Ray Junior. He was going to stay alive until the day Calebow had to eat the dirt of what he had done.
The smell of scotch and expensive cigars enveloped Phoebe as she entered the owner’s skybox the following Sunday. She was doing what she had sworn she wouldn’t—attend a football game—but Ron had convinced her that the owner of the Stars couldn’t miss the opening game of the regular season.
The hexagonal Midwest Sports Dome had actually been constructed in an abandoned gravel quarry that sat at the center of a hundred acres of land just north of the Tollway. When the Stars weren’t playing, the distinctive glass and steel dome was home to everything from religious crusades to tractor pulls. It had banquet facilities, an elegant restaurant, and seats for eighty-five thousand people.
“This is an expensive piece of real estate,” Phoebe murmured to Ron as she took in the owner’s skybox with its two television sets and front wall of windows looking down on the field. She had learned that skyboxes in the Midwest Sports Dome were leased for eighty thousand dollars a year.
“Skyboxes are one of the few profit items we have in that miserable stadium contract Bert signed,” Ron said as he closed the door behind them. “This is actually two units turned into one.”
She gazed through the cigar smoke at the luxurious gold and blue decor: thick pile carpeting, comfortable lounge chairs, a well-stocked mahogany bar. There were nine or ten men present, either cronies of her father’s or owners of the fifteen percent of the Stars that Bert had sold several years ago when he’d needed to raise money.
“Ron, do you notice anything out of place here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Me. I’m the only woman. Don’t any of these men have wives?”
“Bert didn’t allow women in the owner’s box during games.” Mischievous lights twinkled in his eyes. “Too much chatter.”
“You’re kidding.”
“The wives have box seats outside. It’s not an unknown practice in the NFL.”
“The boys’ club.”
“Exactly.”
An overweight man she vaguely remembered having met at her father’s funeral came toward her, his eyes bulging slightly as he stared at her. She was wearing what Simone called her “carwash” dress because the clingy pink sheath was slit into wide ribbons from a point well above her knee to the mid-calf hem. With every step she took, her legs played peek-a-boo with the hot pink ribbons, while the sleeveless scoop-necked bodice clung to her breasts. The man held a cut glass tumbler filled to the brim with liquor, and his effusive greeting made her suspect it wasn’t his first.
“I hope you’re going to bring us good luck, little lady.” He ogled her breasts. “We had a rough season last year, and a few of us aren’t sure Calebow’s the right man for the job. He was a great quarterback, but that doesn’t mean he can coach. Why don’t you use that pretty face of yours to get him to open up the offense more? With a receiver like Bobby Tom, you’ve got to throw deep. And he needs to start Bryzski instead of Reynolds. You tell him that, hear?’
The man was insufferable, and she lowered her voice until it was husky. “I’ll whisper it right across his pillow this very night.”
Ronald quickly drew her away from the startled man before she could do any more damage and introduced her to the others. Most of them had suggestions for adjustments they wanted Dan to make in his starting lineup and plays they wanted him to add. She wondered if all men secretly aspired to be football coaches.
She flirted with them until she could ease away, and then walked over to the windows to gaze down into the stadium. The kickoff was less than ten minutes away, and there were far too many empty seats, despite the fact that the Stars were playing their opening game against the popular Denver Broncos. No wonder the team was having so many financial problems. If something didn’t change soon, those layoffs Dan had mentioned were going to become a reality.
The men in the skybox watched her legs while she watched a television commentator explain why the Broncos were going to beat the Stars. Ron appeared at her side. He shifted nervously from one foot to another, and she remembered that he’d seemed jumpy ever since he’d picked her up. “Is something wrong?”
“Would you mind very much coming with me?”
“Of course not.” She picked up her small purse and followed him out of the skybox into the hallway. “Has something happened I should know about?”
“Not exactly. It’s just . . .” He steered her toward one of the private elevators and pushed the button. “Phoebe, this is funny really.” The doors slid open, and he drew her inside. “You’ve probably heard that athletes are notoriously superstitious. Some of them insist on wearing the same pair of socks all season or putting on their equipment in exactly the same order. A lot of them have developed elaborate pregame rituals over the years—which doors they use, how they approach the stadium. They tuck good luck charms in their uniforms. Silly stuff, really, but it gives them confidence, so there’s no harm.”
She regarded him suspiciously as the elevator began its descent. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Not you, exactly. Well, Bert, really. And certain members of the team.” He glanced nervously at his watch. “It involves the Bears, too. And Mike McCaskey.”
McCaskey was the grandson of George Halas, the legendary founder of the Chicago Bears. He was also the Bears’ controversial president and CEO. But, unlike herself, McCaskey knew something about running a football team, so Phoebe didn’t see the connection.
The doors slid open. As she and Ron stepped out, she saw sunlight, despite the fact that she knew they were beneath the stadium. She realized they were in a hallway that ended in a large tunnel leading to the field. Ron turned her toward it.
“Ron, you’re starting to make me very nervous.”
He withdrew a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his forehead. “Mike McCaskey spends the first quarter of every Bears’ game standing on the field by the bench. He doesn’t interfere with the game, but he’s always there, and it’s become a ritual.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Bert didn’t like the fact that McCaskey was on the field while he was up in the Stars’ skybox, so a few years back he started doing the same thing, and it’s—uh—become part of the routine. The players have gotten superstitious about it.”
A distinct uneasiness was creeping through her. “Ron—”
“You have to stand on the field with the team for the first quarter,” he said in a rush.
“I can’t do that! I don’t even want to be in the skybox, let alone out on the field!”
“You have to. The men expect it. Jim Biederot is your starting quarterback, and he’s one of the most superstitious athletes I’ve ever met. Quarterbacks are like tenors; they’re easily upset. And Bobby Tom was quite vocal about it before the game. He doesn’t want his karma disrupted.”
“I don’t care about his karma!”
“Then how about your $8 million?”
“I’m not going out there.”
“If you don’t, you’re ducking your responsibilities and you’re not the person I thought you were.”
This last came out in a rush, and it gave her pause. But the idea of standing on the field filled her with a fear she didn’t want to face. She searched her mind for a plausible excuse other than panic.
“My clothes aren’t right.”
His eyes shone with admiration as he studied her. “You look beautiful.”
Her knee and a good portion of her thigh poked through the hot pink ribbons as she lifted one foot to show Ron a strappy sandal with a three-inch heel. “Mike McCaskey wouldn’t go on the field dressed like this! Besides, I’ll sink.”
“It’s Astroturf; Phoebe, you’re grasping at straws. Frankly, I expect better of you.”
“Some part of you is actually enjoying this, isn’t it?”
“I must admit that when I saw you in that dress, it occurred to me that your appearance might spark ticket sales. Perhaps you could wave to the crowd.”
Phoebe uttered a word she hardly ever used.
He regarded her with gentle reprimand. “Let me remind you of our initial partnership agreement. I was to supply the knowledge and you were to supply the guts. Right now, you’re not holding up your end of the deal.”
“I don’t want to go out on the field!” she exclaimed in desperation.
“I understand that. Unfortunately, you have to.” Gently clasping her arm at the elbow, he began steering her up the slight incline that led to the end of the tunnel.
She tried to hide her panic behind sarcasm. “Two weeks ago you were a nice guy with no leadership qualities.”
“I’m still a nice guy.” He led her out of the mouth of the tunnel into the blazing sunlight. “You’re helping me develop my leadership qualities.”
He escorted her down the concrete walkway, through the fence, and onto the field, guiding her behind the milling players to a spot just beyond the end of the bench. She knew she was perspiring, and a swell of anger toward her father swept through her. This team was his toy, not hers. As she gazed at the players, their bodies padded to superhuman size, she was so frightened she felt light-headed.
The sun streaming through the glass hexagon at the center of the dome shone on her hot pink dress and some of the people in the crowd called out her name. It surprised her that they knew who she was until she remembered that the story of Bert’s will had become public. She’d already turned down dozens of requests for interviews with everyone from the local papers to NBC. She forced herself to fix a bright smile on her face, hoping no one would notice how unsteady it was.
She realized Ron was getting ready to leave her, and she grabbed his arm. “Don’t go!”
“I have to. The players think I’m bad luck.” He thrust something into her hand. “I’ll be waiting for you in the skybox when the quarter’s over. You’ll do fine. And, uh—Bert always slapped Bobby Tom’s butt.”
Before she could absorb that unwelcome piece of information, he rushed off the field, leaving her alone with dozens of grunting, sweating, battle-hardened men, who were hell-bent on inflicting mayhem. She opened her fist and stared down at her hand in bewilderment. Why had Ron given her a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint gum?
Dan appeared at her side, and she had to fight down a crazy desire to throw herself in his arms and ask him to protect her. The desire faded as he speared her with unfriendly eyes.
“Don’t move from this spot till the end of the quarter. Got it?”
She could only nod.
“And don’t screw up. I mean it, Phoebe. You have responsibilities, and you’d better carry out every single one of them. You and I might think the players’ superstitions are ridiculous, but they don’t.” Without any further explanation, he stalked away from her.
The encounter had only lasted for a few seconds, but she felt as if she’d been broadsided by a bulldozer. Before she could recover, one of the men came charging toward her dangling his helmet by the face guard. Although she had kept herself away from the players, she recognized Bobby Tom Denton from his photograph: blond hair, broad cheekbones, wide mouth. He looked tense and edgy.
“Miz Somerville, we haven’t met, but—I need you to slap my butt.”
“You—uh—must be Bobby Tom.” A very rich Bobby Tom.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She absolutely could not do this. Maybe some women were born to be butt-slappers, but she wasn’t one of them. Quickly lifting her hand, she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. “How about a new tradition, Bobby Tom?”
She waited with apprehension to see if she’d done something irreversible to his karma and, in the process, blown $8 million. He began to frown and the next thing she knew, hot pink ribbons whipped her legs as he snatched her up off the ground and planted a resounding smack on her lips.
He grinned and set her back down. “That’s an even better tradition.”
Hundreds of people in the crowd had caught the exchange and as he trotted away, she heard laughter. Dan had also observed the kiss, but he definitely wasn’t laughing.
Another monster headed toward her. As he approached, he barked an order to someone behind him and she saw the name “Biederot” on the back of his sky blue jersey. This must be her temperamental quarterback.
When he finally came to a stop next to her, she took in his blue-black hair, meat-hook nose, and small, almost feminine mouth. “Miss Somerville, you gotta—Your father—” He stared at a point just beyond her left ear and lowered his voice. “Before every game, he always said, ‘Eat shit, you big bozo.’ “
Her heart sank. “Could I—Could I just slap your butt instead?”
He shook his head, his expression fierce.
She ducked and said the words as fast as she could.
The quarterback gave an audible sign of relief. “Thanks, Miss Somerville.” He jogged away.
The Stars had won the coin toss, and both teams lined up for the kickoff. To her dismay, Dan began running toward her sideways while he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the field. He was tethered by the long cord on his headset, but it didn’t seem to hinder his movements. He drew to a stop beside her, his eyes still glued to the field. “Do you have the gum?”
“The gum?”
“The gum!”
She suddenly remembered the Wrigley’s Ron had thrust into her hand and unclenched her fingers, which were rigidly clasped around it. “It’s right here.”
“Pass it over when the kicker tees the ball. Use your right hand. Behind your back. You got it? Now don’t screw up. Right hand. Behind your back. When the kicker tees the ball.”
She stared at him. “Which one’s the kicker?”
He began to look mildly crazed. “The little guy in the middle of the field! Don’t you know anything? You’re going to screw this up, aren’t you?”
“I’m not going to screw it up!” Her eyes flew to the field as she frantically tried to identify the kicker. She picked the smallest of the players and hoped she was right. When he leaned over to position the ball, she shot her right hand behind her back and slapped the gum into Dan’s open palm. He grunted, shoved it in his pocket, and rushed off without so much as a thank you. She reminded herself that only minutes earlier, he’d referred to the players’ superstitions as ridiculous.
Seconds later, the ball arced into the air and pandemonium broke out before her. Nothing could have prepared her for the gruesome sounds of twenty-two male bodies in full battle gear trying to kill each other. Helmets cracked, shoulder pads slammed together, and the air was filled with curses, growls, and groans.
She pressed her hands to her ears and cried out as a platoon of uniformed men rushed toward her. She was frozen to the spot while the Stars’ player carrying the ball charged toward her. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The crowd went wild as he raced toward the sidelines pursued by a pack of white-and-orange-clad monsters from hell. She saw that he couldn’t stop—he was going to run right over her—but she couldn’t save herself because her knees had locked. At the last moment he swerved and charged into his teammates on the sidelines.
Her heart was in her throat, and she thought she was going to faint. Fumbling with the catch of her tiny shoulder bag, she groped inside for her rhinestone sunglasses, nearly dropping them as she clumsily slipped them on for protection.
The first quarter ticked by with agonizing slowness. She could smell the players sweat, see their sometimes dazed, sometimes crazed expressions, hear their shouted obscenities, one profanity after another until repetition had stripped even the filthiest of words of any meaning. At some point, she realized she was no longer standing there because she had been told to, but as a test of strength, her own private badge of courage. Maybe if she handled this challenge, she could begin to handle the rest of her life.
Never had seconds felt more like minutes, minutes more like hours. Through the corner of her eye, she watched the Star Girl cheerleaders in their sleazy gold costumes with blue spangles, and applauded whenever they did. She dutifully clapped as Bobby Tom caught one pass after another against what she would later hear described as a strong Broncos’ defense. And more frequently than she liked, she found her eyes straying to Dan Calebow.
He paced the sidelines, his dark blond hair glazed by the bright sunlight streaming through the center of the dome. His biceps stretched the short sleeves of his knit shirt and veins throbbed in his muscular neck as he shouted out instructions. He was never still. He paced, raged, bellowed, punched the air with his fist. When a call late in the quarter angered him, he yanked off his headset and began to charge the field. Three of his players leapt from the bench and physically restrained him, their response so well orchestrated she had the feeling they’d done it before. Even though this team was legally hers for the next few months, she knew that it belonged to him. He terrified her and fascinated her. She would have given anything to be that fearless.
The whistle finally blew, signaling the end of the quarter. To everyone’s surprise, the Chicago Stars were tied with the Broncos, 7-7.
Bobby Tom dashed over to her, his expression so jubilant that she couldn’t help smiling back. “I hope you’re gonna be where I can get to you when we play the Chargers next week, Miz Somerville. You’re bringin’ me luck.”
“I think your talent is bringing you luck.”
Dan’s voice rang out, his tone fierce. “Denton, get over here! We’ve got three more quarters to play, or have you forgotten that?”
Bobby Tom winked and trotted away.
