It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars Book 1)

Ron stared down at the field from the skybox window. “I knew what would happen when I suspended him, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be this bad.”

The Stars had been ineffectual against the bloodthirsty Los Angeles Raiders. Jim Biederot was intercepted four times, Bobby Tom couldn’t keep his footing, and the defense didn’t make the tackles that counted. Phoebe gave one last glance at the final score: Raiders 34, Stars 3.

“Never mind,” she said. “It’ll be better next week.”

“We’re playing the Giants next week. They only have one loss this season, and that was to the Sabers.”

Before she could respond, one of Bert’s cronies came up to talk to him.

The next morning, as she drove to work for the eight o’clock meeting Ron had requested, she once again found herself reliving Saturday afternoon. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a wonderful time. From the art fair, the three of them had gone to an area restaurant for an early dinner, and Dan had proved to be as good a listener as he was a storyteller. She’d invited him back to the condo, where he’d talked Molly into modeling all her new clothes for him. His teasing compliments had done more for Molly’s self-confidence than anything Phoebe had said. He’d left a little after eight, and she’d spent the rest of the night torturing herself with images of him in bed with his ex-wife.

Unusually heavy traffic on Naper Boulevard held her up, and she arrived at Ron’s office a few minutes after eight. Dan was already there. She gave them both a cheerful smile as she took a seat around the conference table and hoped Dan couldn’t see how skittish she felt being with him again.

As soon as she was settled, Ron began. “Now that your suspension is over, Dan, I wanted all of us to have a chance to clear the air. As you’re both aware, we’ve taken some hard hits in the press these past few weeks. This morning’s papers are the worst. I received a call at home from our new commissioner last night stating, in the strongest possible terms, that we have become an embarrassment to the League.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme,” Dan said.

“He cited the Beau Monde photographs, your suspension, Phoebe’s manner of dress on the sidelines, and, of course, the rumored romantic liaison between the two of you. He also mentioned a phone conversation he had with you last week, Phoebe. I wish I’d known about it. Is there any reason you didn’t tell me you’d spoken with the commissioner?”

Phoebe shifted her weight in the chair and decided she’d liked Ron better when he was a wimp. “It slipped my mind.”

Dan regarded her skeptically. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

“He’s still rather upset about it,” Ron said.

“I’m the one who should be upset.”

“Would you like to tell us why?”

She tried to figure out how to present this so they wouldn’t jump all over her. “He was actually sort of fatherly. He told me that sometimes a person can get in over her head—especially a pretty little thing like myself who is trying to do a man’s job. He said I wasn’t being fair to Reed. He mentioned all the things he spoke to you about, plus a rumor he’d picked up that I was also carrying on with Bobby Tom.” Her mouth tightened. “He suggested that monthly hormonal fluctuations might be at the root of my troubles.”

Ron knew her well enough to regard her warily. “What did you say?”

“I—uh—” She looked past him out the window. “Never mind.”

“Phoebe . . .”

She bowed to the inevitable with a sigh. “I told him I had to get off the phone because Playboy was on the other line.”

Ron winced, but Dan laughed.

“Don’t encourage her.” Ron was clearly annoyed. “You know that if the Stars were winning, we wouldn’t be getting all this flak.”

“I was suspended last week! It’s real hard to win a football game when you’re not coaching the team.”

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to both of you.” Ron toyed with his coffee mug. “As far as I’m concerned, what’s past is past. We can’t do anything about the photographs, and as for Phoebe’s dress on the sidelines— Well, I believe the commissioner’s wrong.”

“I can just imagine how thrilled he was with that Stars’ tattoo she had on her shoulder blade yesterday. It showed up real nice on TV.”

“It’s removable,” she said. “And I was simply displaying my team spirit.”

“You were displaying a lot more than team spirit.”

“She’s filling up some of the empty seats,” Ron said. “Many of them with women, by the way.” He looked at Dan. “Your suspension was my decision and I take full responsibility for yesterday’s loss. I’m also giving you both a warning. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but I don’t want to get caught in the cross fire again. Is that understood?”

“Understood,” Dan said brusquely.

“There’s nothing going on,” Phoebe said. Dan’s steady gaze was making her uncomfortable. Once again she reminded herself that—temporarily, at least—these two worked for her. She stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

The corner of Dan’s mouth kicked up. “Say howdy to your buddies over at Playboy for me.”

She repressed a smile as she left the room and headed for her office, where she spent the rest of the day reading reports and studying the spreadsheets on her computer screen that detailed the team’s complex finances. As she jotted figures on the steno pad she kept next to the keyboard, she admitted to herself that it felt good to use her brain again.

Their next game was being played at Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands for ABC’s “Monday Night Football.” Since no team wanted to lose in front of such a sizable television audience, Monday night games were considered to be among the most important of the season. As the week advanced the already tense atmosphere at the Stars Complex grew so explosive that fights began to break out among the players, while the staff snapped at each other, and Dan snapped at everyone. The team’s recent bad publicity had made it impossible for Phoebe to continue hiding from the media, and her dread of the upcoming game was compounded when she reluctantly agreed to ABC’s request for a halftime interview.

The players were tightly strung, the chartered plane virtually silent as it left O’Hare on Sunday afternoon for Newark. “It’s like a morgue back there,” Phoebe said to Ron as the flight attendants handed them the drinks they had requested: beer for Ron, tomato juice for her. “I don’t think it’s good for the players to be so tense.”

“Dan’s worked them as hard as I’ve ever seen this week, and they know what’s at stake. We have everything riding on this game.”

She had done more than stare at spreadsheets this week; she had also read a year’s worth of back issues of several well-regarded sports magazines, and she nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I still don’t think they should be so uptight. Maybe that’s why they’re fumbling the ball so much.”

“The only thing that will make them relax is finally having a win behind them.”

“If they don’t loosen up a little, that might not happen.”

“I sincerely hope you’re wrong.”

He turned his attention back to Forbes. She hesitated for only a moment before she leaned down and surreptitiously lifted the latch on the small dog carrier she had stowed beneath her legs.

Seconds later, the interior of the plane was filled with shrill yips as Pooh tore down the center aisle.

In the row of seats ahead of her, Dan’s head shot up, and he whirled around to face her. “Damn it, Phoebe! You brought that dog with you!”

“Oops.” Her lips formed a small, pink oval as she stood and squeezed past Ron. “Excuse me. I seem to have misplaced my pooch.”

Ignoring Dan, she made her way into the coach section of the plane, where she immediately heard the rumble of male laughter. As she had hoped, the players welcomed the distraction Pooh was providing. The poodle scooted between their feet, scrambled over their carryons, and licked any uncovered human part she could reach.

Bobby Tom reached down to snare her, but she dodged and crouched between Webster Greer’s feet. Phoebe couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of Pooh’s fluffy little head with its perky periwinkle bow perched on top of Webster’s size fourteen sneakers. She gazed warily up the aisle at her mistress and tried to figure out how much trouble she’d gotten herself into.

“I don’t think she wants you to catch her,” Webster observed.

“She’s not too fond of her carrier.”

Since Pooh seemed to be doing fine on her own, Phoebe began chatting with the players nearby, asking them about their families, the books they were reading, the music they were listening to on their Walkmans. Pooh had moved on to curl over the prized right foot of the team’s placekicker, but as Phoebe came closer, the dog darted across the aisle only to have Darnell Pruitt, the Stars’ largest offensive tackle, scoop her up.

“This what you’re looking for, Miss Somerville?”

Phoebe hesitated. Of all the men on the team, Darnell Pruitt was the most intimidating. A gold tooth studded with a half-carat diamond glistened in the front of his mouth, and heavy gold chains draped his black leather vest. He was shirtless beneath the vest, revealing a huge chest and heavily muscled forearms displayed in all their polished ebony glory. His eyes were hidden behind menacing black sunglasses, his nose was broad and flat, and a heavy scar puckered one shoulder. An article she had read just the day before in Sports Illustrated had described Darnell as one of the five meanest men in the NFL, and as she studied him, she saw no reason to disagree. She noticed that his teammates had left the seat next to him empty.

Even Pooh was intimidated. The poodle crouched on Darnell’s lap, muzzle down, peering up at him with wary eyes. With a flash of alarm, Phoebe saw that she definitely looked nervous.

She quickly moved along the aisle, absolutely certain that it was not a good idea for Pooh to get nervous while she was sitting on Darnell Pruitt’s lap. When she reached his row, she regarded him anxiously.

“Maybe—uh—I’d better take her.”

“Sit down,” he barked.

It was a command, not a request, and she collapsed into the empty seat like an accordion.

Darnell’s chains rattled.

Pooh began to tremble.

Phoebe chose that inopportune moment to recall the quote Darnell had given Sports illustrated. What I like most about football, he had said, is seeing my man being carried off the field.

She cleared her throat “It’s—uh—not a good idea for her to get nervous.”

“Is that so?” he said belligerently. Scooping up the dog in hands the size of stove mitts, he brought the animal to eye level.

They stared at each other. Darnell’s menacing black sunglasses reflected Pooh’s round brown eyes. Phoebe held her breath as she waited for catastrophe. The seconds ticked by.

Pooh stuck out her long pink tongue and licked Darnell’s cheek.

The diamond in Darnell’s gold tooth flashed as he grinned. “I like this dog.”

“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me,” Phoebe said on a single rush of breath.

Pooh nuzzled through Darnell’s chains to cuddle closer. He stroked the dog’s topknot where the periwinkle bow had come undone as usual. “My mama wouldn’t let me have a dog when I was growin’ up. She said she didn’t want fleas in the house.”

“Not all dogs have fleas. Pooh doesn’t.”

“I’m gonna tell her that. Maybe she’ll let me have one now.”

Phoebe blinked. “You live with your mother, Darnell?”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. She keeps threatenin’ to move out, but I know she won’t do it till I get married. She says she doesn’t trust me to take care of myself.”

“I see. Are you getting married soon?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. Not sayin’ I don’t want to, but life can get complicated, you know.”

“I certainly do.”

“Sometimes the ladies you’re attracted to might not be attracted to you or vice versa.”

She regarded him curiously. “Which one is it?”

“Pardon me?”

“Vice? Or versa? Is the lady attracted to you, but you’re not attracted to her, or—”

“The other way around. I’m attracted to her, but she’s not too crazy about me.”

“That’s hard for me to believe. I thought you football players could take your pick of women.”

“You just try explainin’ that to Miss Charmaine Dodd.”

Phoebe adored hearing stories about people’s love lives. Slipping off her loafers, she drew her legs beneath her. “Tell me about her. If you want to, that is.”

“Well, she’s a real stubborn lady. And stuck on herself. She’s the organist at Mama’s church, and the rest of the time she’s a librarian. Shoot, she doesn’t even dress right. Wears these prissy little skirts and blouses buttoned all the way up to her chin. Walks around with her nose in the air.”

“But you like her anyway.”

“Let’s just say I can’t seem to put her out of my mind. Unfortunately, the lady doesn’t respect me in return because she’s got a education, see, and I don’t.”

“You went to college.”

For a moment he was silent. When he spoke, his tone was so quiet only she could hear him. “Do you know what college is like for somebody like me?”

“No, I don’t.”

“They take a kid like me, eighteen years old, never had much in life, and they say, ‘Darnell, you play ball for us, and we’ll take real good care of you. We’ll give you a fine scholarship, and— You like cars, Darnell? ’cause one of our alums got a big Chevy dealership, and he sure would like to give you a shiny new Corvette as a sign of his appreciation for choosing our fine university. We’ll take good care of you, Darnell. We’ll give you a high-payin’ summer job, except—dig this—you won’t even have to show up for work. And don’t worry too much about your classes, ’cause we’re gonna sign you up for some independent studies.’ “ He regarded her through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “You know what independent study meant for somebody like me? It meant, I work my man over real good on Saturday afternoons, and I got an A when the grades came out.”

He shrugged. “I never graduated, and now I got all kinds of money. But sometimes I think it don’t matter. What good does money do when a lady like Charmaine Dodd starts talkin’ to you ’bout some white dude wrote this famous poem she loves, and her eyes get all lit up, but you don’t know jack about poetry, or literature, or anything else she thinks is important?”

Silence fell between them. Pooh had worked her muzzle into the crook of Darnell’s neck and was snoring softly.

“What’s stopping you from going back to school?”

“Me? Aw, no, I couldn’t do that. Football takes up too much time.”

“Maybe you could go during the off-season.” She smiled. “Why don’t you ask Miss Dodd what she thinks of the idea?”

“She’d laugh at me.”

“If she laughs at you, then you’ve got the wrong woman for sure.”

“I wasn’t ever much of a student,” he admitted with obvious reluctance.

“Probably because nobody expected you to be.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Darnell. You chicken?”

He glowered at her.

“Just kidding,” she said hastily. “The fact that you’re not a natural student could work to your advantage.” She grinned. “You might have to request some private tutoring.”

Darnell laughed, and half a dozen players swung their heads around to stare at him in disbelief.

Elvis Crenshaw stood up. “Hey, Darnell, you gonna hog that dog the whole trip? Pass it over. I like dogs, too.”

Darnell scowled at him. “Why don’t you go fuck— Er—”

The men hooted as Darnell ducked his head in embarrassment. And then their laughter abruptly snapped off.

Phoebe turned her head to determine what had caused the interruption and saw that Dan had entered the cabin. The men returned to their magazines and music, or closed their eyes and pretended to nap, acting as if they had been caught laughing at a funeral.

Dan’s power over even the most hardened of these veterans amazed her. She knew from snatches of conversations she’d overheard that, even though the men resented the relentless pressure he put on them, they still respected him. Ron said that one of the reasons Dan kept himself in such excellent physical shape was because he never asked the men to do anything he couldn’t do himself.

His eyes had widened slightly at the sight of Pooh sound asleep on his star tackle’s chest. He regarded Phoebe suspiciously, chatted for a few moments with the trainer, then, to everyone’s obvious relief, disappeared back into the first-class cabin.

“That is one cranky man,” Phoebe muttered as she stood.

“Coach has a lot on his mind,” Darnell replied.

Pooh stirred and Darnell reluctantly passed her over to Elvis Crenshaw. Phoebe stopped for a few minutes to ask Webster about Krystal and his children, then Bobby Tom wanted to talk to her about an idea he had for marketing his own line of salsa. She asked Jim Biederot about his shoulder and talked to several of the rookies about Chicago nightlife.

When she finally reclaimed Pooh, the atmosphere in the cabin was considerably more relaxed, but she was certain Dan would reverse that tomorrow. She couldn’t fault him for his dedication, but sometimes she wondered how much he knew about human nature. By the time the last team meeting was over, he’d have them all so tightly strung they’d be vibrating.

She spent the evening and much of the next day with Viktor. He chatted enthusiastically about the game and was pleased that she had invited him to share her skybox. He took Pooh with him when they parted, promising to bring the poodle back with him for the game.

For the first time since she had taken over as owner, she joined the team for their pregame dinner at the hotel at five that evening. Instead of taking the chair next to Ron, she sat with Darnell and Elvis Crenshaw, where she bypassed the plate-sized sirloin that was set before her in favor of her baked potato and salad.

It was a grim, silent meal. Afterward, as the players filed out, she saw that a group of Giant fans had somehow gotten into the hotel lobby and draped it with red and blue signs that left no doubt about where their sentiments lay. Her quick flash of anger made her realize how much the Stars had come to matter to her. Instead of an anonymous sports team, they had become a group of people she cared about.

Lost in thought, she dressed automatically in the outfit Simone had made for her in a rush last week. After repacking her suitcase for the late-night return to O’Hare following the game, she met Ron in the lobby.

He smiled as he took in her clothing. “Perfect.”

She looked doubtfully at her reflection in the mirrored tile on the lobby wall. “I knew this was no time to stage a retreat, but it’s not exactly me.”

She was wearing her own variation of a Stars’ uniform: sky blue satin knickers with a sparkly gold stripe down the outside of each thigh. A pair of blue and gold socks were tucked into soft leather sneakers studded with rhinestones. Since the early October evenings were bound to be a bit chilly, Simone had put together a puffy blue and gold satin bomber jacket with an enormous sparkly star on the back and smaller ones scattered over the front. She wore her hair in curls with a wide ribbon threaded through and tied into a floppy blue bow on top of her head, just right of center.

“It’s exactly you,” Ron said. “The cameramen are going to go crazy.”

They said little more to each other as they drove to the Meadowlands and Giants Stadium. Before it had been reclaimed, the Jersey Meadowlands had been a dumping ground for rusty automobiles and men who ran afoul of the mob. Rumors persisted that the stadium had been built on the bridge of Jimmy Hoffa’s nose.

When they reached the owners’ entrance forty-five minutes before kickoff, Ron volunteered to escort her up to the skybox before he made his regular pregame visit to the locker room, but she had already made up her mind what she needed to do and she shook her head.

“I’m going with you.”

“To the locker room?”

She gave an abrupt nod. “To the locker room.”

Ron regarded her uncertainly but made no comment as he led the way through the subterranean depths of the stadium. They entered a locker room that was ominously quiet. With the exception of their helmets, the players were fully dressed, and she felt as if she had stumbled into a land populated by titans. On the field, they were enormous, but trapped indoors wearing full battle gear, their size was truly awesome.

Some of them stood while others hunched on wooden benches with their knees splayed and hands dangling loosely from bent wrists. Bobby Tom and Jim Biederot sat on a long table at the side, their backs resting against the wall. All of their faces were grim as they listened to Dan speak.

“. . . we’re playing our own game out there tonight. We’re not going to win with field goals. We’ve got to win in the red zone. We’ve got to win in short-yardage situations. . . .”

Dan was so intensely focused on his players that he didn’t notice she and Ron had entered the locker room until he had finished.

Ron cleared his throat. “Uhm . . . Miss Somerville wanted to stop by and wish all of you luck tonight.”

Dan’s frown indicated that she was unwelcome. Forcing herself to ignore him, she pasted her brightest smile on her face and stepped into the middle of the locker room. She swallowed her self-consciousness and assumed a pinup pose that showed off her outfit. “Hi, guys. What do you think? Pretty nifty, huh?”

Several of the men smiled, but she knew it was going to take more than a fashion show to cut through their tension. Although she was the last person to consider herself an authority on football, several facts seemed clear to her. The Stars had superb players and excellent coaching, but for some reason, they couldn’t manage to hold on to the football. To her mind, that was a mental problem, not a physical one, and ever since yesterday’s plane ride, she couldn’t shake the idea that they wouldn’t fumble so much if they could just relax a little and have fun.

She stepped up on one of the benches near the front so she could see everybody. “Okay, guys, here goes. My first and—I sincerely hope—last locker room speech.”

Several of them smiled.

“I have complete faith in Coach Calebow. Everybody tells me that he’s a wonderful football strategist and a great motivator of men. Besides, he’s s-o-o-o cute.”

As she had hoped, they began to laugh. She didn’t risk looking at Dan to see how he was receiving her teasing. Instead, she puckered her brow. “Not that the rest of you aren’t cute, too. Except for Webster. I’ve seen Krystal in action, and, believe me, I’m not even looking in Webster’s direction.”

More laughter. Webster grinned and ducked his head in embarrassment.

Her own smile faded. “What I want to tell you is this. If you win tonight’s game, you’ll make my life easier as far as the press is concerned, but, to be totally honest, beating the Giants is more important to all of you than it is to me. I mean, I can only get so worked up about a football game, and—”

“Miss Somerville . . .” The warning note in Dan’s voice was plain.

She hastily went on. “However, as incredible as it seems to me, I’ve actually gotten to like a few of you oversized bozos, and since all of you want to win so badly tonight, I’m going to tell you how to do it.”

Even though she was deliberately avoiding looking at Dan, she could feel those fierce green eyes boring holes right through her skin. Regardless of her position as team owner, this was his turf, and she had invaded it. Still, she went on. “Coach Calebow has eons of experience, and I’m sure you should pay attention to everything he’s told you. But if you’ll do just this one little thing for me, I can practically promise you success.”

She could feel the anger rolling off Dan’s body. He had spent the entire week working the team into a killing frenzy, and she was blithely undoing all his efforts. She had to set aside her own survival instinct so she could concentrate on the men, not an easy feat when he was standing so close. “Tonight, gentlemen, when you line up on that field, I want you to do this.” She paused. “I want you to pretend that the Giants are naked.”

They were staring at her as if she had lost her mind, which probably wasn’t all that far from the truth. She heard a few nervous chuckles, and regarded the offenders with mock gravity.

“I am absolutely serious. When the Giants are lined up, just pretend that guy across from you, on the other side of the—” Her mind went blank, and she turned to Ron. “What’s that thing called?”

“The line of scrimmage?” Ron offered.

“Right. Pretend the guy across the line of scrimmage from you is naked. It’ll work. Really. I promise you. It’s a trick I learned in school to overcome stage fright. I mean how can you be seriously worried about getting beat by some guy who has his—uh—stomach hanging out?” She smiled brightly. “So, for tonight . . . Think naked!”

For better or for worse, the tension in the locker room was gone. As the men’s shoulder pads shook from their laughter, she knew she had accomplished her goal, and she finally allowed her own instinct for survival to kick in.

Jumping down from the bench, she made a dash for the door. “I’ll see all of you on the field.”

Unfortunately, Dan caught her before she could escape, and her courage flagged as she saw that his face was pale.

“You’ve gone too far, Phoebe. When the game is over, you and I are going to have it out for the last time.”

She swallowed hard and slipped past him.

Ron found her twenty feet down the hallway, where she’d collapsed against the wall.