It Had to Be You (15 page)

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.