It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars Book 1)

Phoebe’s cheek was stuck to Dan’s chest and her leg was twisted at an uncomfortable angle, but she didn’t care. As she lay in his arms, her heart was filled with gratitude toward this tender warrior who had done so much to vanquish the enemies of her past.

The air conditioner hissed. In the hallway someone slammed a door. She waited for him to speak because she didn’t know what to say.

He shifted his weight and rolled to the side. She felt chilly air on her bare back. He pulled his arm from beneath her and sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to her. She felt the first wisps of uneasiness.

“You were great, Phoebe.”

He turned and gave her a fake, too-friendly smile. A chill shot through her as she wondered if it was the same one he’d given all the football groupies when he was done with them.

“I had a real good time. Really.” He reached for his jeans. “Tomorrow’s a big day. Got to get up early.”

Every part of her had grown cold. She fumbled with the covers. “Of course. It’s late, I—” She slipped out of bed on the opposite side. “Let me just—” She grabbed for her clothes.

“Phoebe—”

“Here. I’ve got it all.” She made a dash for the bathroom. Her cheeks burned with shame, anger, and hurt as she pulled on her clothes. How could something that had been so earth- shattering for her have been so meaningless to him? She tried to force air past the knot in her throat. Her teeth began to chatter, and she clamped her jaw shut, determined not to let him know what he had done to her. She wouldn’t fall apart until she was alone.

When she emerged, she saw that he had pulled on his jeans. He faced the bathroom door. His hair was tousled, his expression guilty. “You want a drink or something?”

Drawing on the same bravado that had kept her sane for so many years, she tossed her ugly white bra at his feet. “Add this to your souvenir collection, Coach. I don’t want you to lose count.”

Then she was gone.

As the door shut behind her, Dan cursed under his breath. No matter how much he wanted to rationalize, he knew he had just acted like a first-class heel. Even so, he rubbed his arm and tried to tell himself that what he’d done wasn’t all that bad. Phoebe knew the score, so what was the big deal?

The big deal was the fact that, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced sex as good as what had just taken place in this room, and it scared him because it had been so unexpected. There’d been this crazy innocence about her that had excited him beyond belief. She’d been wild and sweet, and just thinking about that curvy body of hers was making him hard again.

He kicked away the bra she had tossed at him and stalked over to the minibar, where he pulled out a bottle of beer. As he twisted off the cap, he acknowledged the real reason he’d acted so badly. It was because he’d felt guilty. From the time he’d seen Phoebe kissing Bobby Tom in the bar to the moment that beautiful blonde had shown him the stars in a million different colors, he’d forgotten all about Sharon Anderson.

Dammit! He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this kind of thing any more. He hadn’t been with another woman since he’d met Valerie, and that had been almost five years ago. The first time should have been with Sharon, not with Phoebe. Now, when he and Sharon finally climbed into bed, that sweet little nursery school lady was going to be competing in his mind with a seasoned sexual tri-athlete.

Even so, he shouldn’t have kicked Phoebe out like that. Guilt gnawed at him. Despite all her character defects, he couldn’t help liking her, and he was almost certain he’d hurt her feelings, although she had so much sass, it was hard to know for sure. Damn, that woman had made him crazy from the first time they’d met. If he weren’t careful, his lust for her would completely screw up his budding relationship with Sharon.

Right then he made a promise. No matter what he had to do, he wasn’t going to let that gorgeous sex bomb sink her claws into him any deeper than she already had. Maybe he owed her an apology, but that was it. From now on, he was a one-woman man.

Phoebe was mad as hell as she got ready to go onto the field for the first quarter of the Stars-Sabers game. Jerk! Idiot! Moron! She stood at the mouth of the tunnel and called herself every name in the book. Of all the brainless, self-destructive, idiotic things she could have done, this one took the cake.

She still felt woozy from her crying jag last night. Sometime around four in the morning, she had finally taken a long, painful look inside herself and realized there was only one explanation for the depth of hurt she was feeling. She was letting herself fall in love with Dan Calebow.

Her chest spasmed in a short, painful hiccup. Afraid she would start crying all over again, she dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to find some rational explanation for how she had let such a disaster happen. She should have been the last woman in the world to have succumbed to a sexy Southern drawl and a gorgeous set of biceps. But there it was. Some hormonal imbalance, some reckless streak of self-destruction, had sent her flying too close to the sun.

And how hot that sun had burned last night. She had never imagined making love could be like that—funny and tender and wonderful. Her throat tightened as she reminded herself that she might have been making love, but he had been having sex.

She realized she was dangerously close to tears, and she couldn’t afford to fall apart again. Fixing a blazing smile on her face, she walked out into the Oregon sunshine, where she planned to exact at least a small measure of revenge for every sweet second she’d spent last night lying in his treacherous arms.

The photographers spotted her before the crowd did. A prerecorded tape began playing the old standard, “Ain’t She Sweet?” She realized this must be the surprise Ron had said he would have for her when she went on the field. She was going to be the only owner in the NFL with her personal theme song.

Accompanied by wolf whistles, she struck a pose, blew a kiss, and walked toward the bench, her hips wiggling to the beat. The photographers snapped away at the dazzling red and black python-printed leather jeans that hugged every curve of her lower body, and the fitted black silk man’s vest cupping her bare breasts. The owner of the trendy boutique next to the hotel had been persuaded to open the door just for her at ten o’clock that morning after Phoebe had decided the conservative linen dress she’d brought with her would no longer do. The boutique owner had suggested a man’s bow tie to accessorize the outfit, but Phoebe had chosen to loop a more feminine bit of black lace ribbon around her throat, while she showed her team spirit with clusters of silver stars dangling from her earlobes. The outfit was expensive, outrageous, and completely inappropriate, a flagrant in-your-face to Dan Calebow.

She had known how he would feel about it even before she saw him turn his head to see what all the fuss was about. At first he looked stunned, then murderous. For a moment their eyes locked. She wanted to blast him with her most smoldering gaze, but she couldn’t manage it. Before he could sense her misery, she turned her attention to the photographers, who were calling her name. While they recorded her every curve, she knew she had never felt less womanly. Why had she ever thought a man like Dan could look at her as anything more than a body?

Bobby Tom came trotting up. “I got a feeling you’re going to bring me luck today.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She took her time giving him his kiss and then acknowledged the crowd’s cheers with a wave. Jim Biederot appeared for his pregame insult. Several of the other players sidled up, and she wished them luck. Ron had pressed a pack of Wrigley’s in her hand before the game, but Dan didn’t approach her at the kickoff to claim it.

The ball arced into the air, and when the massive bodies of the players began to collide, she managed to avoid slapping her hands over her eyes. Although it was still terrifying to be near so much mayhem, she realized as the quarter progressed that she wasn’t quite as panicked as she had been the week before. Ron had been teaching her the rudiments of the game, and more than once, she found herself caught up in the action.

Later, in the skybox, she had the satisfaction of watching Dan get ejected in the fourth quarter after insulting one of the refs. Inspired by her good luck kiss, Bobby Tom had caught five passes for 118 yards, but it wasn’t enough to make up for his teammates’ fumbles, especially against a powerhouse like the Sabers. With six turnovers, the Sabers beat the Stars by eighteen points.

She and Ron returned with the team on the charter flight back to O’Hare. She had changed from her python jeans into comfortable slacks and a red cotton sweater that hung to mid-thigh. As she approached Dan, who was sitting in the front row of first class and scowling over next week’s game plan with Gary Hewitt, the offensive coordinator, she wished she could slip past him before he noticed her. Since that wasn’t possible, she stopped momentarily beside his seat, arched her eyebrows, and flipped the pack of Wrigley’s into his lap.

“You really should learn to control your temper, Coach.”

He gave her a glare that could have scorched concrete. She quickly moved on.

After the plane took off, she left her seat in first class next to Ron and walked into the cabin to speak with the players. She was stunned to see how banged up they were. The team physician was giving one of the veterans a shot in the knee, while the trainer worked with another. Many of the men sported ice packs.

They seemed to appreciate the fact that she was willing to converse with them after an embarrassing loss. She noticed that there was a definite pecking order to the way in which they were seated. The coaches, GM, and important press occupied first class, while Stars staff members and the camera crew sat in the front of the coach section. The rookies occupied the next few rows, and the veterans took up the back of the plane. Later, when she asked Ron why the veterans chose the rear of the plane, he told her they liked to get as far away from the coaches as possible.

It was after one in the morning when they landed at O’Hare, and she was exhausted. Ron was taking her home since she hadn’t driven to the airport. As she slid into the deep front seat of his Lincoln Town Car, she heard a brisk set of footsteps approaching.

“We need to talk, Phoebe. Let me drive you home.”

She looked up to see Dan standing next to the car, his hand resting on the door as he leaned down to peer inside. He was wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, and he looked more like a stern-faced high school principal who was about to reach for his paddle than one of the gridiron’s legendary hell-raisers.

She fumbled with her seat belt buckle as she snapped it together. “We can talk tomorrow. I’m going with Ron.”

Ron, who was standing on the driver’s side, had just finished placing their carry-on bags in the rear seat. He looked up as Dan came around the front of the car.

“I have some business I need to discuss with Phoebe, Ronald. I’ll drive her home. We can trade cars at work tomorrow.” He tossed over a set of keys and, ignoring her exclamation of protest, slid behind the wheel. While Dan adjusted the seat to accommodate his taller framer, Ron stared down at the keys in his hand.

“You’re letting me drive your Ferrari?”

“Don’t put any drool marks on the leather.”

Ron snatched his carry-on bag from the back and handed over his own keys, so pleased at the prospect of driving “ICE 11” that he dashed off without telling Phoebe good-bye.

She sat in stony silence as Dan pulled out of the parking lot. Within minutes, they were heading south on the Tri State. In the gaudy lights of billboards advertising radio stations and beer, she could see that he was doing a slow burn, as if he were the wronged party instead of her. She made up her mind that she wasn’t going to let him realize how much he’d hurt her.

“I suppose you know you disgraced yourself at the game today by showing up in that snake charmer outfit.”

“1 disgraced myself? Unless my memory’s faulty, you were the one who got evicted.”

“I got ejected, not evicted. That was a football game, not a damn landlords’ convention.” He glanced over at her. “What were you trying to prove, anyway? Don’t you know that when you wear clothes like that, you might as well have a For Sale sign plastered on your chest.”

“Of course I know it,” she cooed. “Why do you think I do it?”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “You’re really pushing me, aren’t you?”

“My clothing isn’t any of your concern.”

“It is when it reflects on the team.”

“Don’t you think those infantile temper tantrums you throw on the sidelines reflect on the team?”

“That’s different. It’s part of the game.”

She hoped her refusal to respond told him exactly what she thought of his logic.

They drove for several miles in silence. Phoebe’s misery settled in deeper. She was so tired of playing a part all the time, but she didn’t know any other way to behave. Maybe if they’d met under different circumstances, they would have had a chance.

Dan’s belligerence had faded when he finally spoke again. “Look, Phoebe. I feel bad about last night, and I want to apologize. I liked being with you and all, and I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. It was just gettin’ kind of late . . .” His apology trailed lamely into silence.

She could feel her throat closing, and she fought against it. Pulling the fragments of her willpower together, she spoke with the bored lockjaw drawl of a South Hampton socialite. “Really, Dan, if I’d known you would react in such an immature fashion, I would never have gone to bed with you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

“You reminded me of a teenager who’d just done it in the backseat of the family car and was having an attack of guilty conscience. Frankly, I’m accustomed to a bit more sophistication on the part of my lovers. At the very least, I expected another round. It’s hardly worth all that effort if you’re only going to do it once, is it?”

He made a strange, choking sound and drifted into the right lane. She kept at him, prodded on by the pain of knowing he couldn’t see through her, that this was the way he expected her to behave. “I don’t think I’m terribly demanding, but I do have three requirements of my lovers: courtesy, endurance, and quick recovery for a repeat performance. I’m afraid you failed all three.”

His voice grew dangerously low. “Aren’t you going to criticize my technique, too?”

“Well, as to that I found your technique to be quite . . . adequate.”

“Adequate?”

“You’ve obviously read all the books, but . . .” She forced an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, I’m probably too picky.”

“No. Go on. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“I guess I hadn’t imagined you’d have so many— Well, so many hang-ups. You’re a very uptight lover, Daniel. You should relax more and not take sex so seriously. Of course you were operating at a disadvantage.” She paused, then went in for the kill. “In all fairness, what man could be at his best having sex with the woman who signs his paychecks?”

She was dismayed to hear a soft chuckle. “Phoebe, darlin’, you’re takin’ my breath away.”

“I wouldn’t dwell on it too much. I’m certain it was just a temporary thing. Bad chemistry.”

In the flash of headlights, she could see him grin. For a fraction of a second she almost forgot the sting of his rejection and smiled herself.

“Honey lamb, there are a lot of things in this world I feel insecure about. Religion. Our national economic policy. What color socks to wear with a blue suit. But, I’ve got to tell you that my performance in that hotel room last night isn’t one of them.”

“With that ego of yours, I’m not surprised.”

“Phoebe, I said I was sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Now if you don’t mind, I’m exhausted.” She rested her head against the window and closed her eyes.

He was just as good at nonverbal communication as she. Within seconds, he’d flipped on the radio and filled the interior of the car with the hostile music of Megadeth. Nothing had been settled between them.

Phoebe saw little of Dan during the week that followed. His days seemed to be spent in watching miles of film, attending an endless number of meetings with his coaches and players, and spending some time each day on the practice field. To her surprise, Molly agreed to accompany her to the game on Sunday against the Detroit Lions, although when Phoebe suggested she bring a friend, she refused, saying that all the girls at her school were bitches.

The Stars beat the Lions by a narrow margin, but the following Sunday at Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh, the team once again fell victim to a series of turnovers and lost a close game. They were now one and three for the season. She ran into Reed at the Pittsburgh airport. He was so cloyingly sympathetic, while at the same time subtly critical, that she couldn’t wait to get away from him.

The next morning, when Phoebe arrived at her office, her secretary handed her a note from Ronald asking her to meet him immediately in the second-floor conference room. As she grabbed her coffee mug and made her way down the hall, she noticed that all the phones were ringing and wondered what new catastrophe had struck?

Dan was leaning against the paneled back wall, ankles and forearms crossed, a scowl on his face as he stared at the television that rested on a movable steel cart along with a VCR. Ron was seated in a swivel chair at the end of the table.

As she slid into the chair to his left, he leaned over and whispered, “This is a tape of ‘Sports in Chicago,’ a popular local program that aired last night while we were flying home. I’m afraid you need to hear this.”

She turned her attention to the television and saw a good-looking, dark-haired announcer seated in a tub chair against a backdrop of the Chicago skyline. He gazed into the camera with the intensity of Peter Jennings covering a major war.

“Through skillful trades and smart draft choices, Bert Somerville and Carl Pogue managed to assemble one of the most talented group of players in the league. But it takes more than talent to win victories, it takes leadership, something the Stars now sorely lack.”

The screen began to show clips from Sunday’s game, a series of fumbles and broken plays. “General manager Ronald McDermitt is not a football visionary—he’s never even played the game—and he simply doesn’t have the maturity to keep a maverick coach like Dan Calebow in line, a coach who needs to be concentrating more on the fundamentals his young players need and less on razzle-dazzle. The Stars are an organization verging on chaos, hampered by inept management, erratic coaching, shaky finances, and an owner who is an embarrassment to the NFL.”

Phoebe stiffened as the camera began to display a montage of photos of her taken over the years. Briefly, the announcer sketched in the details of Bert’s will.

“Socialite Phoebe Somerville’s behavior is turning a serious and noble game into a circus. She doesn’t understand the sport, and doesn’t seem to have any experience managing anything more complicated than her checkbook. Her provocative clothing on the sidelines and her snubs to media requests for interviews make it clear how little respect she has for this talented team and the sport so many of us love.”

The camera cut to an interview with Reed. “I’m certain that Phoebe is doing her best,” he said earnestly. “She’s more accustomed to moving in artistic circles than athletic ones and this is difficult for her. Once she’s fulfilled the requirements of her father’s will, I’m sure I’ll be able to get the Stars back on track quickly.”

She gritted her teeth as Reed went on, smiling into the camera and coming across as the perfect gentlemen to her wild-eyed party girl.

The moussed-up talking head came back on camera. “Despite Reed Chandler’s chivalrous defense of his cousin, January is a long time away. In the meantime, when is Miss Somerville going to provide direction to her general manager? Even more troubling, how can she clamp down on her explosive head coach when a troubling rumor has surfaced. Normally, we would not report this sort of thing, but since it has a direct bearing on what’s happening with the Stars, we feel it’s in the public interest to reveal that a reliable source saw her emerging from Calebow’s Portland hotel suite in the early hours of the morning two weeks ago.”

Dan uttered a blistering obscenity. Phoebe gripped her hands together.

The announcer regarded the camera gravely. “Their meeting might have been innocent, but if it wasn’t, it doesn’t bode well for the Stars. We should also note that Miss Somerville’s indiscretions don’t stop at a rumored fling with her head coach.”

He picked up a copy of Beau Monde magazine, a glossy, upscale publication with a circulation nearly as large as Vanity Fair. Phoebe groaned inwardly. She’d had so much on her mind lately that she’d forgotten all about Beau Monde.

“Our new NFL Commissioner Boyd Randolph would be well-advised to take a look at the latest issue of popular Beau Monde magazine, which will be showing up tomorrow on area newsstands and features our own Miss Somerville in the buff. Perhaps these photographs, which FCC regulations prohibit me from showing on camera, will spur the commissioner to have a serious discussion with Miss Somerville about her responsibilities to the NFL.”

His brows drew together in the studied outrage of a reporter trying to pump up his Nielsen’s. “Professional football has worked hard at cleaning up its image after the drug and gambling scandals of the past. But now a young woman with no interest in the game wants to drag it right through the dirt again. Let’s hope that Commissioner Randolph won’t let that happen.”

Dan pointed his finger toward the announcer. “Isn’t that weasel one of Reed’s buddies?”

“I believe so.” The broadcast had come to an end, and Ron hit the switch on the remote control.

“Chandler’s a real prince,” Dan muttered in disgust. He snatched up the manila envelope that lay on the table, and Phoebe’s outrage gave way to a sinking sense of dread.

“My secretary just gave it to me,” Ron said. “I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”

Dan whipped out the magazine. Phoebe wanted to take it away from him, but she knew that would only postpone the inevitable. A page ripped as he began thumbing through it, searching for the offending photographs.

“Why bother?” she sighed. “You’ve already seen everything I’ve got.”

Ron winced. “It’s true then? You really were together in his hotel room.”

Dan turned on her. “Why don’t you just hire the Goodyear blimp so you can announce it to the whole world?”

Her fingers trembled as she cupped her now cold coffee mug. “It’s not going to happen again, Ron, but you need to know the truth.”

He looked at her like a worried father confronting a well-loved, but ill-behaved child. “I blame myself. It never occurred to me to talk to you about the impropriety of fraternizing with Dan. I should have realized— This, coupled with the photographs, is going to be a public relations nightmare. Didn’t you realize that posing nude for a magazine, even a respectable one like Beau Monde, would embarrass the team?”

“I posed for those photographs in June, a month before I inherited the Stars. With everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten about them.”

Dan still hadn’t found the photographs. He gritted his teeth. “I’m telling you this, Ronald. If we get any calls from Playboy, you’d better tie her down and gag her, because she’ll be buck naked and airbrushed before you know it.”

Abruptly, he stopped flipping and stared. Then he began to curse.

Phoebe hated the need she felt to defend herself. “Those photographs were done by Asha Belchoir, one of the most respected photographers in the world. She also happens to be a friend of mine.”

Dan whapped the page with the back of his hand. “You’re painted!”

Ron reached out. “May I?”

Dan tossed the magazine on the table as if it were a piece of garbage. It landed open, revealing a double page spread of Phoebe reclining in front of Flores’s “Nude #28,” a surrealistic portrait he had done of her not long before his death. Superimposed on Phoebe’s naked body was an exact reproduction of the section of the painting that her reclining form covered. The effect was beautiful, eerie, and erotic.

Ron turned the page to reveal an enlarged photograph of Phoebe’s breast, its nipple puckered beneath a coating of chalk white paint. Her skin had become a surrealistic canvas for miniature blue silhouettes of other breasts executed in Flores’s characteristic style.

The final photograph was a full-length vertical nude taken from the rear. She was lifting her hair, knee bent, one hip slightly outthrust. Her unpainted skin formed a canvas for black and crimson handprints on her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the curve of her buttock, the back of her thigh.

Dan jabbed at the magazine photo with his index finger. “Some man must have had a good time doing that to you!”

Phoebe didn’t take time to consider that his anger seemed out of proportion for someone who was trying so hard to distance himself from her. “Men, darling. One for each color.” It was a lie. The body artist had been a pudgy, middle-aged woman, but he didn’t have to know that.

Ron picked up his pen and tapped it on the tabletop. “Phoebe, I’ve scheduled a press conference for both of us at one o’clock. Wally Hampton in PR will brief you. Dan, I want you to stay out of sight until tomorrow. When the press finally catches up with you, don’t comment on anything except the game. You know how to handle it. And unless you want the story to end up on the front page, keep your fists in your pockets if any reporter has the nerve to bring up the hotel room incident to your face.”

She rose from her chair. “No press conference, Ron. I told you from the beginning that I won’t do interviews.”

Dan’s lips twisted. “If you give her permission to strip first, I bet she’ll do it.”

“That’s enough, Dan.” Ron turned to Phoebe. “I apologize for the press conference.”

Dan gave a snort of disgust “That’s tellin’ her, Ronald. You sure do know how to crack the old whip.”

Ron seemed not to have heard. “Unfortunately, you can’t continue to snub the press without looking as if you have something to hide.”

“I don’t think there’s much left that everybody hasn’t already seen,” Dan sneered.

Phoebe caught her breath. Ron rose slowly from the table and turned to face the coach. “Your comments are uncalled for. You owe Phoebe an apology.”

Dan’s expression was rigid with anger. “She’s not going to get one.”

“You’re hardly innocent in all this. There were apparently two people in that hotel room. And if you hadn’t lost so many games, we wouldn’t be under attack. Instead of insulting Phoebe, perhaps you should consider doing something about all those turnovers.”

Dan seemed to be having trouble believing what he was hearing. “Are you criticizing my coaching?”

Ron’s Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed hard before he spoke. “I believe I’ve made my point. You’re being rude, belligerent, and insulting to Phoebe. Not only is she the owner of this team and your employer, but she is also a person deserving of respect.”

Phoebe didn’t have time to feel grateful for Ron’s gallant defense. She was too alarmed by the vicious lines that had formed on each side of Dan’s mouth. Too late, she remembered that this was a man who had been trained to meet all attacks with fierce counteraggression.

“Now listen here, you little pip-squeak. How I treat Phoebe isn’t any of your business, and you know what you can do with your fucking etiquette lessons!”

“Stop right there,” Ron warned.

But Dan was running on adrenaline and emotions he had no way to express except through anger. “I’ll stop when I decide to stop! Unless you want to bring down an outhouse full of shit on your head, remember that I’m the one coaching this team. Looks to me like you’ve got more than you can handle just taking care of bimbo control!”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

All the blood drained from Phoebe’s head. She felt sick and humiliated.

Dan’s eyes dropped. His hand moved to his side in an ineffectual, almost helpless, gesture.

“I’m suspending you for one week,” Ron said quietly.

Dan’s head shot up and his lips tightened into a sneer. “You can’t suspend me. I’m the coach, not one of the players.”

“Nevertheless, you’re suspended.”

Alarmed, Phoebe took a quick step forward. “Ron . . .”

He put up his hand and said softly, “Please don’t involve yourself in this, Phoebe. I have a job to do, and I need to do it my own way.”

Dan closed the distance between them, hovering over the general manager in a manner that was so physically menacing Phoebe cringed. He spoke in a low, venomous drawl.

“I’m going to have your ass.”

Ron’s skin had assumed a faint greenish tone, but he kept his voice almost steady. “I want you to leave the building immediately. You’re not to contact any of the other coaches or players until your suspension is up after the game next Sunday.”

“I’ll leave the building when I damn well please!”

“For Phoebe’s sake, please don’t make this any worse.”

Seconds ticked by as Dan regarded him with tight-lipped fury. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Nevertheless, I have to do what I think is best.”

Dan gave him a long, hard glare and stalked from the room.

Phoebe pressed her hand to her mouth. Ron gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

“The press conference will take place on the practice field at one o’clock. I’ll come to your office to get you.”

“Ron, I really don’t—”

“Excuse me, Phoebe, but I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.”

Releasing her arm, he dashed from the room, while she stared after him in dismay.

Dan’s feet slammed the stair treads as he stormed down to the first floor. When he hit the landing, he drew back his foot and kicked the metal door open. Once he was outside, the bright Indian summer day did nothing to soothe his rage.

As he stalked toward his car, he plotted what he would do next. He was going to snap that little weasel’s neck. Kick his weasel ass inside out. Any kind of suspension was in direct violation of his contract, and his lawyers were going to make mincemeat out of Phoebe and her GM. He didn’t have to take shit like that. He was going to . . . He was going to . . .

He was going to stop acting like an ass.

He braced one hand on the roof of his car and took a deep, unsteady breath. He was embarrassed and furious, not at Phoebe but at himself. How could he have insulted her like that? He’d never in his life treated a woman so badly, not even Valerie. And Phoebe hadn’t deserved it. She made him crazy, but she didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She was funny and sexy and sweet in her own particular way.

He hated losing control like this, but when he’d heard that smug reporter telling the world that Phoebe had been in his hotel room, he’d been so full of rage at the violation of their privacy that he’d wanted to kick in the television screen. He knew enough about the press to realize that Phoebe would end up taking the heat for something that had been his fault. If only he’d talked to her about it instead of insulting her.

He knew he would have handled the whole thing a lot better if it hadn’t been for those photographs. The idea of strangers looking at her body infuriated him. His reaction was completely illogical, considering the fact that her body had been on display in most of the major museums of the world, but he couldn’t help it. Besides, abstract paintings were different from brightly lit photographs. The photographs he’d seen in Beau Monde were works of art, but the world was filled with millions of horny assholes who weren’t going to know that. Thinking about the way they would be drooling over those pages had made his temper snap.

His damned temper. When was he going to grow up and get it under control? It didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand why he had such a hard time with it. Even when he was a little kid—four or five years old—his old man had beaten him up if he cried or complained because he was hurt or scared.

He could still hear his old man’s drunken abuse. Fetch my belt so I can give you something real to cry about, little girly.

As he grew up, he’d discovered that the one emotion he could safely express around his old man was anger, whether on the football field or with his fists. Hell of a thing. A man thirty-seven years old still behaving like a playground bully. Except this time the bully had gotten what was coming to him. This time the bully had been cut down to size by the short little kid who couldn’t even make the team.

Once again the anger came back to him, but now he was honest enough to admit it was a camouflage for shame. Shame that Ronald was the one who’d defended Phoebe. Shame that Ronald had been defending her against him.

If he hadn’t been so mad at himself, he might have been able to enjoy the fact that Ronald McDermitt had finally shown some gumption. If he hadn’t been so mad at himself, he might have believed there was actually some hope for the team after all.