"There are some games you can't walk away from, Miz Somerville, without hurting a lot of people."
"I'm not going to lose much sleep over a bunch of grown men crying in their beer because they aren't winning football games."
"Then how about the staff people who are going to lose their jobs? Our ticket sales are way down from last year, and that means layoffs. How about their families, Miz Somerville. Will you lose sleep over them?"
He'd made her feel like a selfish worm. She'd been so wrapped up in her own feelings that she hadn't bothered to consider the effect her decision to turn her back on the Stars might have on others. If only she could find a way to stay true to herself without hurting anyone else. Several seconds ticked by while she considered her options. Finally, she released an indolent sign.
"All right, Mr. Calebow. You've absolutely devastated me. I'm not going to Chicago, but you can have the papers shipped to me here, and I'll sign them."
"I'm afraid that's not going to work, ma'am. In case you forgot, you fired me. If you want me back, you're going to have to meet a few of my conditions."
"What conditions?" She regarded him warily.
He leaned back in his chair like Big Daddy after a seven-course dinner, except Big Daddy was fat and ugly instead of a hard-muscled athlete with a powerful chest and a lethal grin.
"It's like this. I want you in the Stars' business offices by noon on Tuesday to sign those three contracts. Then we'll sit down with Steve Kovak, your director of player personnel, and discuss qualified candidates for the general manager's job. You'll hire one of them by the end of the week, and from then until the team's no longer your responsibility, you'll show up for work like everybody else and sign the papers he puts in front of you."
Only the warning in Viktor's eyes kept her from emptying the last of the pulgogi in the football coach's lap. She could feel her father's net drawing tighter around her, and she thought of those weeks she had spent at Montauk walking on the beach and trying to restore peace to her life. But how could she be at peace with herself if innocent people were going to suffer because of her stubborn pride?
She considered the one hundred thousand dollars. In light of what Dan Calebow had told her, it no longer seemed quite so much like blood money. All she had to do to earn it was endure the next three or four months. When they were over, she'd have a clear conscience and the stake she needed to open her art gallery.
With a sense of inevitability, she gave him a bright, false smile. "You've convinced me, Mr. Calebow. But I'm warning you now. I won't go to any football games."
"That's probably just as well."
Viktor extended his arms and gave them each an approving smile. "There. Do you see how easy life is when stubborn people are willing to compromise?"
Before Phoebe could respond, the telephone began to ring. Although she could have answered it right there, she took advantage of the opportunity to escape and excused herself. Pooh trotted after her as she slipped from the kitchen.
The door closed behind her, and the two men regarded each other for a long moment. Viktor spoke first. "I must have your promise, Coach, that you won't hurt her."
"I promise."
"You spoke a bit too quickly for my taste. I don't quite believe you."
"I'm a man of my word, and I promise that I won't hurt her." He flexed his hands. "When I murder her, I'll do it real quick, so she won't feel a thing."
Viktor sighed. "That's exactly what I was afraid of."
Chapter 6
« ^ »
"Here we are, Miss Somerville."
The Buick Park Avenue left the highway for a two-lane service road marked with a blue and white wooden sign that read Stars Drive. Annette Miles, the driver who had picked Phoebe up at O'Hare, had been Bert's secretary for several years. She was in her late forties, overweight, with short, graying hair. Although polite, she wasn't particularly communicative, and there had been little conversation between them.
Phoebe was tired from having gotten up at dawn to catch her early flight and she felt tense about what lay ahead. Trying to relax, she gazed out the passenger window at the wooded landscape. Stands of oak, walnut, maple, and pine lay on both sides of the service road, and through a gap in the trees to her right, she could glimpse a cyclone fence.
"What's over there?"
"A regulation-size grass practice field, along with a seventy-yard field. The trees keep the area private from the gawkers." She passed a turnoff with a rectangular blue and white sign marking a delivery entrance. "Your father bought this land from the Catholic church in 1980. There used to be a monastery here. The complex isn't fancy—not like the Cowboys' or Forty-Niners' facilities—but it's functional, and the Midwest Sports Dome isn't far away. There was. a lot of controversy when the dome was put in, but it's brought a great deal of money into DuPage County."
The road curved to the right and up a gentle incline toward an architecturally unimpressive two-story, L-shaped building made of gray glass and steel. Its most pleasant aspect was the way the glass reflected the surrounding trees, softening the building's utilitarian look.
Annette pointed toward a paved lot marked for reserved parking. "I had your father's car brought over from the house as you asked. It's parked by the side entrance. Normally you'll want to use it, but today I'll take you in through the lobby."
She pulled into the visitor's space closest to the front entrance and turned off the engine. Phoebe got out. As she approached the building, she found herself wishing she'd brought Pooh along as a security blanket instead of leaving her with Viktor. She caught sight of her reflection in the double glass doors. This outfit, a pearl gray trouser suit, was the closest thing she had to business attire. She wore an indigo silk shell beneath the short jacket and matching indigo sandals fastened with delicate gold chain T-straps. Her hair curved in sleek blond sickles away from her face. The only frivolity she had permitted herself was a purple and white wooden panda pin on her lapel. And her rhinestone sunglasses.
Annette opened one of the double glass doors for her. Each door held the team logo of three interlocking gold stars in a sky blue circle. Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, Phoebe stepped inside her father's world.
The semicircular lobby, predictably carpeted in sky blue, held gold vinyl chairs and a curved white reception desk with blue and gold stripes. A trophy case sat at one end, along with citations, posters, and a framed display of all the NFL team logos.
Annette gestured toward a chair. "Would you wait here for just a moment?"
"Of course." Phoebe removed her sunglasses and tucked them in her purse. Barely a minute passed before a man came rushing out of the left hallway.
"Miss Somerville. Welcome."
She stared at him.
He was adorable, a short, bookish Tom Cruise with a friendly, deferential expression that went a long way toward settling her nervous stomach. Although he was probably close to her own age, he looked so boyish that he seemed like a teenager. She took the hand he offered and gazed into a pair of glorious Cruise-blue eyes that were on the same level as her own.
"I'm sure you must be tired from your flight." He had the thickest fringe of lashes she had ever seen on a man. "I'm sorry that you haven't had a chance to rest before being plunged into all this."
His voice was soft, his manner so sympathetic, that she experienced her first ray of hope since Dan Calebow had blackmailed her. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
"I'm fine," she reassured him.
"Are you certain? I know there are a number of people waiting to see you, but I'll do my best to put them off if you'd like."
She wanted to tie a bow around him and put him under her Christmas tree. Her internal radar wasn't sending out any warning signals telling her to vamp him, something that generally happened when she was around good-looking men. His small stature and friendly manner were keeping her from feeling threatened.
She lowered her voice so only he could hear. "Why don't
you just stick by my side instead? I have a feeling I'm going to need a friendly face."
"I'll be happy to." They exchanged smiles and she had a comforting sense of connection with him, as if they'd known each other for years.
He led her through an archway into a den of offices decorated with commemorative footballs, pennants, and team cups stuffed with pencils. As they passed through, he introduced her to a number of men, most of whom wore blue polo shirts bearing the Stars' logo and all of whom seemed to have titles: director, manager, assistant.
Unlike his more casually dressed coworkers, her new ally wore a pin-striped charcoal suit, starched white shirt with French cuffs, burgundy rep tie, and polished cordovan wing tips.
"You haven't told me your name."
"Gosh." He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand and grinned, producing a charming set of dimples. "I've been so nervous about meeting you I forgot. I'm Ron McDermitt, Miss Somerville."
"Please, Ron, call me Phoebe."
"I'd be honored."
They walked through a busy area of staff desks separated by partitions, then turned the corner into the longer back wing of the building. It was decorated as unimaginatively as the lobby: blue carpet, white walls covered with photographs, and team posters in simple chrome frames.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. "We're due in Steve Kovak's office now. He's the director of player personnel, and he wants to get the contracts signed as soon as possible."
"Coach Calebow made these contracts sound like life and death."
"They are, Phoebe. For the Stars, anyway." He stopped in front of a door that bore a small brass placard announcing it as the office of the director of player personnel. "Last season, this team had one of the worst records in the league. The fans have deserted us, and we've been playing in a stadium that's barely half-full. If we lose Bobby Tom Denton, there'll be even more empty seats."
"You're telling me I'd better sign or else."
"Oh, no. You're the owner. I can advise you, but it's your team, and you make the final decision."
He spoke so earnestly that she wanted to throw her arms around him and give him a big smacker right on his cute little mouth. Instead, she walked through the door he had opened for her.
Steve Kovak was a weathered veteran of decades of gridiron warfare. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, he had thinning brown hair, a lantern jaw, and a ruddy complexion. Phoebe found him thoroughly terrifying, and as they were introduced, she wished she weren't wearing slacks.
Since she couldn't flash her legs, she let her jacket fall open as she took a seat across from his desk. "I understand I need to sign some contracts."
"Affirmative." He pulled his eyes away from her breasts and pushed a sheaf of papers toward her. She extracted a pair of reading glasses with leopard-spotted frames from her purse and slipped them on.
The door opened behind her and she tensed. She didn't need to turn her head to know who had come in; there was something in the air. Perhaps it was the subtle citrus scent she had noticed when he had been in her apartment, perhaps simply the atmospheric turbulence of excessive macho. The idea that she still remembered what he smelled like scared her, and she let her jacket fall open a bit farther.
"Real glad to see you could make it, Miz Somerville." A distinct edge of sarcasm undercut his Alabama drawl. Until now, she'd never found Southern accents particularly attractive, but she was forced to admit there was definitely something seductive about those elongated vowels.
She kept her eyes on the papers she was studying. "Make nice, Mr. Calebow, or I'll sic Pooh on you." Before he could respond, her head shot up from Bobby Tom Demon's contact. "Eight million dollars? You're giving this man $8 million dollars to catch a football! I thought this team was in financial trouble?"
Dan leaned against the wall to her left, crossed his arms and tucked his fingers under the armpits of the blue Stars' polo shirt he wore with a pair of gray slacks. "Good wide-outs don't come cheap. You'll notice that's for four years."
She was still trying to get her breath back. "This is an obscene amount of money."
"He's worth every penny," Steve Kovak retorted. "Your father approved this contract, by the way."
"Before or after he died?"
Dan smiled. Instinctively, Phoebe looked over at the only man in the room she trusted for confirmation that her father had, indeed, known about this outrageous contract. Ron nodded.
Kovak's chair squeaked as he turned toward Dan, effectively shutting her out of the discussion. "Do you know that the Colts only paid Johnny Unitas ten thousand dollars a year? And that was after he'd led them to two championships."
These men were definitely crazy, and she decided she would be the voice of sanity. "Then why don't you get rid of Bobby Tom Denton and hire this Unitas person? You could triple the Colts' offer and still be a few million ahead."
Dan Calebow laughed. Dipping his head, he kept his arms crossed as his chest began to shake. Steve Kovak stared at her with an expression that fell someplace between shock and abject horror.
Her eyes darted to Ron, who had a gentle smile on his face. "What did I say wrong?" she asked.
Leaning forward, he patted her hand and whispered, "Johnny Unitas is retired now. He's—uh—about sixty. And he was a quarterback."
"Oh."
"But if he were still playing and—uh—younger, that might have been an excellent suggestion."
"Thank you," she replied with dignity.
Head still dipped, Dan wiped his eyes with his thumbs. "Johnny Unitas. Jay-zus…"
Completely irritated now, she swung her legs toward him while she whipped off her glasses and jabbed them at the unsigned contracts. "Did you make money like this when you were playing?"
He looked over at her, his eyes still moist. "Starting quarterbacks do a little better than that after they've been around for awhile."
"Better than $8 million?"
"Yep."
She slapped the contracts down on the desk. "Fine. Then why don't you sign this!" Rising to her feet, she stalked out.
She was halfway down the hall before she realized she had no place to go. An empty office lay off to her left. She stepped inside and shut the door, wishing she'd held her temper. Once again, she'd let her tongue take control of her brain.
Tucking her glasses into the pocket of her jacket, she walked to the floor-to-ceiling bank of windows that ran behind the desk and looked out over two empty practice fields. What did she know about wide-outs and $8 million contracts? She could converse with art lovers in four different languages, but that wasn't any use to her now.
The door opened behind her.
"Are you all right?" Ron inquired softly.
"I'm fine." As she turned, she saw the concern in his eyes.
"You have to understand about them. About football."
"I hate the game. I don't want to understand."
"I'm afraid you'll have to if you're going to be part of this." He gave her a sad smile. "They take no prisoners. Pro football is the most exclusive boys' club in the world."
"What do you mean?"
"It's closed to outsiders. There are secret passwords and elaborate rituals that only they can understand. None of the rules are written down, and if you have to ask what they are, you can't belong. It's a closed society. No women allowed. And no men who don't measure up."
She walked away from the window to one of the file cabinets and regarded him curiously. "Are you talking about yourself?"
He gave an embarrassed laugh. "It's painfully obvious, isn't it? I'm thirty-four years old. I tell everyone I'm five feet ten, but I'm barely five-eight. And I'm still trying to make the team. It's been that way all my life."
"How could it still be important to you?"
"It just is. When I was a kid, I couldn't think about anything else. I read about football, dreamed about it, went to every game I could—playground, high school, the pros, it didn't matter. I loved the patterns of the game—its rhythms and lack of
moral ambiguity. I even loved its violence because somehow it seemed safe—no mushroom clouds, no litter of dead bodies when it was over. I did everything but play. I was too small, too clumsy. Maybe I just wanted it too bad, but I could never hold on to the ball."
He slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers. "My senior year of high school, I was a National Merit Scholar and I'd been accepted at Yale. But I would have given it all up in a second if I could have been on the team. If, just once, I could have carried the ball into the end zone."
She understood his yearning even if she couldn't understand his passion for football. How could this sweet, gentle man have such an unhealthy obsession?
She nodded her head toward the papers he was carrying. "You want me to sign those, don't you?"
He came closer, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "All I can do is advise you, but I think this team has an exciting future. Dan's temperamental and demanding. Sometimes he's too hard on the players, but he's still a great coach, and we have a lot of young talent. I know these contracts represent a fortune, but in football, championships make money. I think it's a good long-term investment."
She snatched the papers from him and quickly scrawled her name in the places he indicated. When she was done, she felt dizzy knowing that she had just given away millions of dollars. Still, it would ultimately be Reed's problem, so why should she worry?
The door opened and Dan came in. He saw the pen in her hand as she returned the contracts to Ron, who gave him a brief affirming nod.
Dan seemed to visibly relax. "Why don't you take those back to Steve now, Ronald?"
Ron nodded and left the room before she could stop him. The office felt measurably smaller as the door once again closed and they were alone. She had felt safe with Ron, but now something dangerous sizzled in the air.
As Dan walked behind the desk and took a seat, she realized this was his office. Unlike other parts of this building, this room had no ego-inflating wall of commendations and photographs. Utilitarian steel bookcases and file cabinets stood on one side opposite a well-worn couch. The desk and the credenza behind it were cluttered, but not disorganized. A television occupied the far corner along with a VCR. She averted her eyes from an ugly hole in the wallboard that looked as if it might have been made with a fist.
It Had to Be You Page 8