It Had to Be You (16 page)

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.

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 the 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.”

Dan shook his head, then turned to Phoebe. “The scary thing is, Webster and Krystal have one of the best marriages on the team.”

“I guess I’d better go settle him down before he picks a fight with somebody.” Krystal rolled the beer can in her injured hand. “Mind if I take this along as an ice pack?”

“Help yourself.”

She smiled at Phoebe and then rose on tiptoe to plant a kiss on the corner of Dan’s jaw. “Thanks, pal. Stop by the house sometime and I’ll fry you up a hamburger.”

“I’ll do that.”

As Krystal returned to her husband, Dan lowered himself to the bench. Phoebe sat next to him, keeping as much space between them as she could manage.

“Have you known Krystal for long?”

“Webster and I were teammates right before I retired, and all of us got to be pretty good friends. Neither of them liked much about my ex-wife except her politics, and Krystal used to show up at my door with milk and cookies when I was going through my divorce. We haven’t been able to see a lot of each other socially since I joined the Stars.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m Webster’s coach now.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Rosters have to be cut, players traded. There has to be some distance.”

“A strange way to conduct friendships.”

“That’s just the way it is. Everybody understands.”

Although the others were in sight, the bench was tucked far enough into the shadows of the japonica bushes that she had begun to feel as if they were alone, and she was so aware of him that her skin prickled. She welcomed the distraction of a female squeal, and, looking through a break in the hedges, saw a woman whip off the top of her bikini. The accompanying hoots and squeals were so loud she hoped they didn’t awaken Molly and frighten her.

“The party’s getting a little wild.”

“Not really. Everybody’s on their good behavior because the chaperons are here.”

“What chaperons?”

“You and me. The boys aren’t going to let their hair down with the owner and head coach hanging around, especially since we lost today. I remember a few parties during my playing days that lasted right through till Tuesday.”

“You sound nostalgic.”

“I had some fun.”

“Getting tossed in swimming pools and judging wet T-shirt contests?”