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 cr
azed. "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.
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Phoebe stood in the flickering shadows of the torches that had been placed at intervals around the pool at the Somerville estate and watched as five giggling women surrounded Bobby Tom Denton. None of the Stars' management or staff had regarded Bert's death or the fact that Phoebe would soon be moving out of the house as an excuse to cancel the party he had hosted each year after the season opener. While Phoebe had been at the game, her secretary had supervised the caterers setting up for the event. Phoebe had replaced her carwash dress with a slightly less conspicuous apricot knit tank dress.
The team's loss that afternoon to the Broncos had cast a pall over the early hours of the gathering, but as the liquor had begun to flow more freely, the mood had grown livelier. It was nearly midnight now, and the platters of steaks, ham, and lobster tails had been demolished. Phoebe had been introduced to all the players, their wives, and girlfriends as they arrived. The players were scrupulously polite to their new owner, but being around so many athletes had brought back too many bad memories, so she had removed herself to a wooden bench set by a clump of japonica bushes well off to the side of the pool.
She heard a familiar voice and felt a queer jolt as she looked toward the patio and saw Dan. Ron had told her that Sunday night was one of the busiest times for the coaches as they graded the players on their performances that afternoon and worked on the game plan for next week. Even so, she had found herself looking for him all evening.
She watched from the shadows as he moved from one group to another. Gradually, she realized he was drawing closer. She saw that he was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and the contrast between those studious glasses and his rugged good looks did strange things to her insides.
She crossed her legs as he came up to her. "I've never seen you in glasses."
"My contacts bother me after about fourteen hours." He took a sip from the can of beer in his hand and propped his foot on the bench next to her.
This man really was a Tennessee Williams wet dream, she thought, as a film strip slowly unwound in her head. She could see him in the shabby library of a decaying plantation house, his white shirt damp with sweat from a lusty encounter with young Elizabeth in the brass bed upstairs. He had a cheroot clamped between his teeth as he thumbed impatiently through an old diary trying to discover where his great-grandmother had buried the family silver.
Her body felt warm and languid, and she had to suppress the urge to rub against him like a cat.
The burst of loud laughter that came from the pool pulled her back to reality. She looked over in time to see five of Bobby Tom's women shove him into the water fully dressed. When he didn't immediately come up for air, she gritted her teeth. "I'm forcing myself not to run over and pull him out."
Dan chuckled and took his foot down from the bench. "Relax. You have even more money invested in Jim Biederot than in Bobby Tom, and Jim's just lassoed one of the chimneys so he can climb the side of the house."
"I'm definitely not cut out for this job."
Bobby Tom rose to the surface, blowing water, and pulled two of the women in with him. She was glad Molly's bedroom looked out on the side of the house instead of the back.
"Tully told me Jim climbs the house every year," Dan said. "Apparently, the party wouldn't be the same without it."
"Couldn't he just put a lamp shade on his head like everybody else?"
"He prides himself on originality."
A burly defensive lineman lay down on the concrete at the side of the pool and began to bench press a shrieking young woman. Dan pointed his beer can toward them. "Now there's where your real trouble's gonna start."
She stood so she could get a better view and then wished she hadn't. "I hope he doesn't hurt her."
"That wouldn't matter so much as the fact she's not his wife."
At that moment a tiny fireball with a shining mane of Diana Ross hair charged from the rear of the patio toward Webster Greer, a 294-pound All-Pro defensive tackle.
Dan chuckled. "Watch and learn, Phoebe."
The spitfire screeched to a stop on a pair of stiletto heels. "Webster Greer, you put that girl down right this minute or your ass is gonna be grass!"
"
Aw, honey—" He dropped the redhead onto a chaise lounge.
"Don't you 'honey' me," the spitfire shrieked. "You want to find yourself sleeping in that bowling alley you built for yourself in our basement, that's just fine with me, 'cause you sure as hell won't be sleeping with me."
"Aw, honey—"
"And don't you come crying on my shoulder after I haul your ass to divorce court and take you for every penny you got."
"Krystal, honey, I was just foolin' around."
"Foolin' around! I'll show you foolin' around!" Drawing back her arm, she punched die tackle in the stomach with all her might.
He frowned. "Now, honey, why'd you have to go and do that? Last time you hit me, you hurt your hand."
Sure enough, Krystal was cradling her hand, but that didn't stop her sassy mouth. "Don't you worry about my hand. You worry about your ass! And whether or not I'm ever gonna let you see your kids again!"
"Come on, honey. Let's go put some ice on it."
"Go put some ice on your dick!"
With a dramatic flip of her hair, she stalked away from him and headed directly toward Phoebe and Dan. Phoebe wasn't certain she wanted a confrontation with this pint-sized termagant, but Dan didn't look all that unhappy about it.
As the woman came to a stop in front of him, he wrapped her injured hand around his beer can. "It's still cold, Krys. Maybe it'll keep the swelling down."
"Thanks."
"You've got to stop hitting him, honey. One of these days you're going to break your hand."
"He's got to stop making me mad," she retorted.
"That female's probably been after him all night. You know Webster's the last man on the team who'd fool around with another woman."
"That's 'cause I understand how to keep him in line."
Her tone was so smug that Phoebe couldn't hold back a bubble of laughter. Instead of being offended, Krystal smiled back at her.
"Don't ever let a man know he's got the upper hand if you want a happy marriage."
"I'll remember that."
It Had to Be You Page 12