It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars Book 1)

The pep band struck up “Ain’t She Sweet?” and the Star Girl cheerleaders formed a tunnel of blue and gold pom-poms for Phoebe to walk through. As she made her way onto the field for the AFC Championship game, she sparkled in a short velvet jacket encrusted with thousands of sky blue sequins, a matching metallic gold tank top and miniskirt, shimmery stockings, and square-heeled pumps with beaded gold stars twinkling on each toe. The crowd greeted her with wolf whistles and cheers while the Star Girls shook their pom-poms and wiggled their hips.

As she waved and blew kisses, she could feel the tension-charged atmosphere in the mood of the crowd and see it in the players’ grim expressions as they huddled on the sideline. She avoided looking at Dan while she made her way to the end of the bench for her pregame rituals. Many of the players believed she brought them good luck, and she had been forced by necessity into a routine of thumping helmets, slapping shoulder pads, and slipping lucky pennies into shoes. Bobby Tom, however, refused to give up his good luck kiss.

“We’re gonna do it today, Phoebe.” He gave her a resounding smack and set her back down on the ground.

“I know you are. Good luck.”

She watched as the Sabers joined the Stars on the field. Their starting quarterback had been reinjured in the last game, making the Stars a narrow favorite, but Ron had warned her that, even injured, the Sabers were a great ball club.

As the kickoff approached, she could no longer avoid looking at Dan. She saw the strained tendons in his neck as he spoke into the headset to the coaches’ box and then said a few words to Jim Biederot, who stood at his side. Only when the players were in position for the kickoff did he turn in her direction. Their eyes locked, but his expression was blank, revealing nothing of his feelings. She fumbled for his gum in her jacket pocket as he came toward her.

It hadn’t taken the fans long to grow familiar with the Stars’ pregame rituals, and the crowd watched for the moment when the kicker would tee the ball and Phoebe would pass over the Wrigley’s. As Dan drew up next to her, she tried to sound normal.

“I didn’t forget your gum.”

He studied her for a moment, his mouth set in a tight, hard line. “Bobby Tom gets soul-kissed and I get a pack of gum. I don’t think so.”

Her eyes widened as he whipped off his headset. Before she could react, he leaned down and gave her a long, punishing kiss.

Strobes flashed and the crowd roared with laughter, hoots, and cheers. When Dan pulled away, Phoebe forced herself to smile. The crowd thought it was a joke, but she knew it wasn’t. His kiss had been filled with anger and intended to hurt. He was letting her know that he hadn’t forgiven her for insulting his honor.

He moved abruptly away and turned all his attention to the field as the ball soared through the air. The Sabers’ return man caught it deep in the Stars’ end zone.

Despite her own turbulent emotions, she was quickly wrapped up in the excitement of the game. She knew from Ron that part of Dan’s strategy was to force Saber turnovers, and the defense’s aggressive play did just that less than four minutes into the game, when Elvis Crenshaw knocked the ball loose from their tailback. The Stars quickly established control and by the end of the quarter, they had posted seven points and the Sabers were scoreless.

She made her way back up to the skybox, where the atmosphere was as tense as it had been on the field. The Stars were building momentum while the Sabers struggled to get into the game, but it was still far too early to relax. Ten minutes later, when the Stars intercepted a thirty-yard pass, Phoebe knew she couldn’t stand the tension any longer. They were playing brilliantly, but what if they fell apart?

Muttering to Ron that she was going to take a walk, she slipped the chain of her purse over her shoulder and left the skybox. She nodded at the security officer outside, then began to pace in the otherwise deserted hallway. As another gale of cheers came from behind the closed doors, she rounded the bend at the end of the hall.

She wished Molly were with her instead of sitting outside with her friends. The last few days had been magic between the two of them as Molly had chattered away nonstop, determined to fill her older sister in on every detail of her life. Phoebe smiled. No matter what else she might regret about these past few months, she would never regret her decision to keep Molly with her.

She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she barely noticed how far she’d walked until the door of one of the nearby skyboxes flew open, amplifying another round of cheers. Her fingers tightened over her purse as Reed came out. The last thing she wanted at this moment was to meet up with him, but he had already spotted her, so she couldn’t retreat.

The Stars’ last victory had put an end to his pretended affability, and now there was nothing left but hostility. When he reached her, he lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and squinted against the smoke.

“Bored with the game already?”

She had no desire for another confrontation, and she gave a casual shrug. “No. Just nervous. What about you?”

“I came out for a cigarette, that’s all.”

The cloud of smoke that had wafted into the hallway when he’d opened the skybox door still hadn’t entirely dissipated. “You couldn’t stand to watch either.”

She immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Although she hadn’t meant her statement to be a challenge, that was how he took it.

“It’s not even halftime. I wouldn’t start celebrating yet.”

“I’m not.”

They heard another round of cheers, and he drew a quick, angry drag. “You’ve been lucky all your life. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who could step into a pile of shit and have it turn into gold.”

“I’ve always thought you were the lucky one.”

He gave a snort.

She gripped the strap of her purse. “After all these years, you still hate me, don’t you? When I was a kid, I could never figure out why. You had everything that I wanted.”

“Sure I did,” he scoffed. “I grew up in a run-down apartment with a neurotic mother and no father.”

“You had a father. You had mine.”

His lips drew tight in a sneer. “That’s right, I did. Bert cared more about me than he ever cared about you, right up until the day he died. He just wanted to teach you a lesson. He kept saying that you were his only failure, and he thought you’d settle down if he could get you away from those faggots you were always running with.” Reed jabbed his cigarette into one of the sand-filled ashtrays that stood against the wall. “Bert didn’t mean for it to turn out like this. No one could have predicted all the flukes that happened this season. The Sabers lose Simpson and McGuire, the Chargers lose Wyzak, the Bills and the Dolphins fall apart. Christ, if he’d had any idea the Stars would make it to the playoffs, he never would have let you get near the team, not even for a day!”

“The Stars did make it to the playoffs. And from the sound of the cheers, they’re winning.”

His face darkened with rage. The successful businessman had disappeared, leaving the cruel bully of her childhood in his place. “Goddammit, you’re gloating, aren’t you?”

“I’m not—”

But her denial came too late because he jammed her against the wall with his body. She winced as her shoulders hit and her purse dropped to the ground.

“You ruined everything for me! You always have!”

Frightened, she pushed against his chest with the heels of her hands. “Let me go or I’ll scream!”

“Go ahead! If anybody sees us, they’ll think you’re coming on to me like you come on to everybody else.”

“I mean it, Reed! Let me go.”

She froze as she felt his hand move to her breast. He squeezed. “You were a hot little piece when you were eighteen, and you still are.”

Shock held her immobile. “Get your hands off me.”

“When I’m ready.”

She struggled to back away from his obscene touch, but she was pinioned by his body. The expression on his face frightened her. She expected to see lust, but instead she saw something more dangerous. She saw hatred and the need to exert his power over her just as he always had.

“You may end up with the Stars, but before you start believing you’ve got the last laugh, there’s something you should know.”

The triumph in his expression made dread creep through her like poison. She was a child again, watching him hold a photograph of her mother just out of her reach. They might have been surrounded by eighty thousand people, but she had never felt more alone.

His lip curled. “That night in the pool shed . . .”

“No! I don’t want to hear this!” All the old nightmares came rushing back. She could hear the thunder, feel the hot, sticky heat. Once again, she tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn’t release her.

“Remember the storm? How dark it was?”

“Stop it!” She had begun to sob. He squeezed her breast tighter.

“So dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. . . .”

“Don’t do this!”

“That night when Craig fucked you . . .”

“Please . . .”

“It wasn’t Craig.”

Her stomach heaved, and a whimper slipped through her lips as his words hit her like a blow. Her lungs felt as if they had collapsed and she was suffocating to death.

“I’m the one who found you in that shed.”

She was going to vomit. Had she always suspected this in the deepest recesses of her subconscious or was it new knowledge? She gagged at the smell of his cologne.

He released her breast only to twist a lock of her hair around his fingers. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as he pulled hard.

“And the best part is, there’s not a damned thing you can do about it, Miss High and Mighty, because it happened too long ago. It’d be your word against mine, and while you’ve been humping everything in pants, I’ve been Mister Clean. So whenever you start gloating about the Stars, know that I’ll be remembering the way you screamed when I popped that sweet little cherry of yours.”

“Are you all right, Miss Somerville?”

Reed jumped back as a security guard approached from the left. She pressed her fingers to her lips.

“Miss Somerville? Is everything okay here?

She struggled to speak. “No, I . . .”

“See you later, Phoebe.” Reed straightened his tie, then crossed the hallway to the skybox. He turned and gave her a smirk. “Thanks for that cherry pie.” Opening the door, he disappeared inside.

She pressed her hand to her stomach. The security guard took her arm.

“Everything’s going to be all right, Miss. Let me help you.”

She moved like a robot at his side as he drew her down the hallway. The memories of that terrible night came crashing back. There had been no windows in the metal shed, and the heat trapped inside had been thick and heavy. When he’d opened the door, she’d seen only a hulking male silhouette against slick black sheets of rain. She’d assumed it was Craig, but she hadn’t seen his face.

He’d been on her before she could move. He’d torn her blouse and bitten one of her breasts like an animal. She remembered the roughness of the uneven concrete floor scraping her bare buttocks as he had pushed up her skirt and ripped off her underpants. Her head had banged into a chemical drum when he’d spread her apart. He had made a guttural sound as he’d pushed into her, but after that, the only sounds she could remember were her own screams.

The floor gave out beneath her and her head shot up. For a moment she was disoriented, and then she realized the security guard had led her into an elevator. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to first aid.”

“I’m all right. I don’t need first aid.”

“You’re white as a sheet. I don’t know what that guy was trying to pull, but maybe you should lie down for a few minutes until you feel better.”

She started to protest but realized she wasn’t in any condition to go back to the skybox right then. A few minutes away from curious eyes would give her a chance to pull herself back together. “All right. Just for a bit.”

As the elevator continued to descend, she smelled cigarette smoke on the guard’s uniform, and another wave of nausea came over her because it reminded her of Reed. She was overcome by a sense of helplessness. He was going to get away with this. He was right. Too much time had passed for her to be able to make accusations.

The security guard began to hack. He was overweight, probably in his early fifties, with grizzled hair and a florid complexion. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. She read his name printed in block letters on his plastic tag. “You should give up those cigarettes, Mr. Hardesty.”

“Yeah.”

The elevator doors slid open. She saw the pipes overhead and realized they were in some sort of subbasement. “Where are we?”

“There’s a first aid station for the employees down here. It’ll keep you away from the crowds.”

She followed him out of the elevator into a narrow corridor, which was painted a dull, battleship gray. Pipes hissed overhead and she heard a sound that reminded her of distant thunder. She realized that she was hearing the muffled roars of the crowd in the dome above them.

They rounded a sharp bend. “In here.” He caught her elbow and turned the knob on an unmarked door.

Feeling her first quiver of uneasiness, she hesitated. With a hard push, he thrust her inside.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

Her eyes widened with horror as she saw that he had drawn his gun and it was pointed directly at her. A sense of unreality swept over her. Reed was her enemy, not this man she had never met. Above her the crowd roared like a beast in a padded cage, while she was trapped in a nightmare where she had escaped one terror only to be ensnared by another.

He pushed the door shut. “Get over there!”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Move!”

She stumbled backward, gradually becoming aware that he had pushed her into a room that seemed to be both a janitorial office and storage space. She saw a dented gray steel case desk, a file cabinet, and a wall of metal shelving holding cartons and machine parts.

He pointed the gun toward an armless secretarial chair that had a small V-shaped tear in the black vinyl seat. “Sit down.”

Her legs trembled as she lowered herself into the chair. The oval-shaped back support squeaked and gave slightly as she leaned back. She stared with grim fascination at the ugly black gun that was trained on her heart. It didn’t waver as he leaned down to pull a length of clothesline from behind a packing box that sat on a metal shelving unit across from the desk.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Instead of answering, he pushed against the chair seat with his shoe, spinning it around so that she was facing the wall. She automatically reached out to brace herself, only to have him grab her arms and pull them behind her. She gave a cry of alarm.

He wheezed as he tied her wrists and secured them to the vertical metal bar that held the chair’s back support. It rocked alarmingly on its spring hinge, pulling at her arms and making her wince. When she was bound, he gave the chair another push, sending it flying into the far corner of the cramped room. She stopped it with her feet before she banged into the wall and then, panic-stricken, pushed herself around so that she was facing him.

She tried to feel grateful that he hadn’t tied her legs, but the cords were cutting into her wrists, sending shafts of pain shooting upward. He picked up the gun from one of the metal shelves where he had laid it while he tied her and returned it to the leather holster on his hip.

How long would it be before Ron noticed that she was missing? She fought down the hysteria rising inside her, knowing that no matter what happened, she had to keep her wits. She grew aware of the distant sound of music and realized that the halftime show had begun. Trying to ignore the pain in her arms and wrists, she forced herself to take in the details of the office.

The dented gray desk against the wall was cluttered with stacks of dog-eared manuals, catalogues, and a litter of papers. A small portable television, its tan case marred by greasy fingerprints, sat on top of a four-drawer file cabinet directly across from her. Clipboards hung from L-shaped hooks on the wall behind the desk, along with a calendar featuring a nude woman holding a brightly colored beach ball.

The guard lit a cigarette and held it between his stubby fingers, which were stained with nicotine. “Here’s the way it’s gonna be, lady. As long as your boyfriend does what I tell him, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well I guess that doesn’t much matter.” He walked over to the file cabinet and turned on the television set. The black-and-white picture showed the commentators in their network blazers sitting in the broadcast booth.

“. . . the Stars played brilliantly in the first half. The offense mixed up their plays. They protected the ball well. The Sabers are going to have to be a lot more aggressive if they want to get back into this game.” The display at the bottom of the screen showed the score: Stars 14, Sabers 3.

The guard gave a vile curse and turned down the volume. She looked at him more closely as he paced the narrow end of the office closest to the door, smoking furiously. Her eyes fell on his black plastic name tag.

HARDESTY

At that moment, it all came back. She remembered Dan’s telling her about the man who had been stalking him, the father of one of the Stars’ former players. His name was Hardesty.

A beer commercial blinked mutely on the television. She licked her dry lips. “My arms are hurting. The rope’s too tight.”

“I’m not untying you.”

“Just loosen it.”

“No.”

She had to get him to talk. She would go crazy if she didn’t find out what he had in mind. “This is about your son, isn’t it?”

He pointed his cigarette at her. “I’ll tell you something, lady. Ray Junior was the best defensive end to ever play for the Stars. There wasn’t any reason for that bastard to cut him.”

“Coach Calebow?”

“He had it in for Ray Junior. He didn’t even give him a chance.”

“Dan doesn’t operate that way.”

Clouds of gray smoke wreathed his head, and he barely seemed to have heard her. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think he knew Ray Junior was a better player than he’d ever been. I think he was jealous. The press made a big thing about Calebow, but he was nothing, not compared to my Ray.”

She realized that the man was insane. Maybe he’d been this way for a long time, or maybe his son’s death had been the final blow. She tried to conceal her fear.

“Players get cut all the time. It’s part of the game.”

“You don’t know what it’s like! One day you’re somebody special, and the next day nobody knows your name.”

“Are you talking about your son or yourself?”

“Shut up!” His eyes bulged and his complexion took on a faint purplish hue.

She was afraid to push him any farther, and she fell silent.

He jabbed his finger at her. “Look, you don’t mean anything to me. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Because no matter what, I’m not going to let the Stars win this game.”

* * *

Ron reached the tunnel just as the players were rushing back onto the field. He dreaded what he had to do. Dan had been a bear all week—temperamental, unreasonable, and impossible to pacify—and he had no idea how he’d react to this distressing piece of news.

Dan emerged from the locker room and Ron fell into step beside him. “I’m afraid we’ve got a problem.”

“Handle it. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m trying to win a football game here, and—”

Ron pressed his folded handkerchief against his forehead. “Phoebe’s missing.”

Dan jerked to a stop, and his face went pale. “What are you talking about?”

“She left the skybox during the second quarter and never came back. Somebody found her purse in the hallway. I’ve called her house and her office. I’ve checked with first aid and sent someone to every skybox. She’s gone, Dan, and at this point, I have to believe it’s foul play.”

Ron had seen Dan in pressure situations, but he’d never seen such raw panic in his eyes. “No! She can’t be— Christ. Did you call the police?”

“Yes, but since it’s so early, they’re not taking it as seriously as I am. I hate doing this to you in the middle of the game, but it occurred to me that you might be able to think of someplace else I could look. Do you have any ideas? Can you think of anyplace else she might be?”

He stood frozen, his eyes wild in the pallor of his face. “No.” He grabbed Ron’s arm. “Did you talk to Molly? Jesus! Talk to Molly! Maybe Phoebe’s with her.”

He’d never seen Dan like this, and he knew right then that there was more to the relationship between the Stars’ owner and head coach than he had suspected. “Molly hasn’t seen her since before the game. She’s pretty upset. Tully’s wife is with her now.”

“If anything’s happened to Phoebe—”

“Dan?” One of the assistant coaches had appeared at the mouth of the tunnel.

Dan rounded on him, the cords of his neck standing out like ropes. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

Ron could feel Dan’s desperation, and he grabbed the head coach’s other arm with an urgent grip. “You’ve got to get back on the field! There’s nothing you can do for Phoebe right now. I’ll let you know right away if we find her.”

Dan regarded him with haunted eyes. “Don’t let anything happen to her, Ron. For God’s sake, find her!”

Ron wanted to reassure him, but he could only say, “I’ll do my best.”

One level below, Hardesty reached into his pocket for a fresh pack of cigarettes. Phoebe’s eyes were stinging from the smoke, adding to the misery of the pain in her arms and wrists. The silence between them had strained her nerves to the point where she had to speak.

“Whose office is this?”

For a moment she didn’t think he would reply. Then he shrugged. “One of the engineers. He has to stay with the generators until the gates close, so he won’t be popping in for a visit, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

The silent screen showed the Sabers kicking off. She flinched as he turned up the volume.

“You’re not going to get away with this.”

“You know something? I don’t care. As long as the Stars lose the championship, I don’t fucking care!”

Hardesty glanced at the TV, then moved to the desk, where he picked up the telephone and punched four buttons. Several seconds passed before he spoke into the receiver.

“This is Bob Smith with the Stars. I’ve got Phoebe Somerville here, and she wants to talk to Coach Calebow. Patch this call through to the sidelines, will you?” He paused, listening. “She doesn’t give a shit about authorization. She says it’s important, and she’s the boss, but it’s your ass, so you do what you want.”

Whoever was on the other end must have decided to go along with the request because Hardesty slid the phone to the end of the desk closest to where she was sitting. The wheels squealed as he caught the back of her chair and pulled her to it. He waited silently, his hand clenching the receiver, and then he tensed.

“Calebow? I got somebody here wants to talk to you.” He pushed the receiver to Phoebe’s ear.

“Dan?” Her voice was thin with fear.

“Phoebe? Where are you? Jesus, are you all right?”

“No, I—” She cried out with pain as Hardesty dug his fingers into her hair and yanked hard.

On the sidelines, Dan went rigid. “Phoebe! What’s happened? Are you there? Talk to me!”

His heart was banging against his ribs, and a cold sweat had broken out on his forehead. Phoebe was being terrorized, and there was nothing he could do about it. With blinding clarity, the strength of his fear peeled away all his self-protective layers, and he knew how deeply he loved her. If anything happened to her, he didn’t want to go on living. He cried out her name, trying to convey everything he felt for her but had never been able to say.

A gravelly male voice traveled through his headset. “I’ve got her Calebow. If you don’t want her hurt, you’ll listen real hard to what I’m saying.”

“Who is this?”

“The Stars lose today. Got me? Your fucking team loses or the lady dies.”

Dan heard the wheeze in the man’s voice and was gripped by a horrible suspicion. “Hardesty? It’s you, isn’t it, you crazy son of a bitch!”

“Your team isn’t going to win the championship without my boy.”

The fact that Hardesty made no attempt to deny his identity magnified Dan’s fear as nothing else could have. Only a man who didn’t care if he lived or died would be so careless.

He knew he didn’t have much time, and he spoke quickly, his voice commanding. “Listen to me. Ray wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“You were jealous of him. That’s why you cut him.”

“This is between you and me. Phoebe doesn’t have anything to do with it. Let her go.”

“Don’t call the police.” Hardesty coughed, a dry rattling sound. “I’m watching on TV, and if I see anything unusual going on, you’ll be sorry.”

“Think, Hardesty! You’ve got an innocent woman—”

“Any more points go on the scoreboard for the Stars, I’m gonna hurt your girlfriend.”

“Hardesty!”

The line went dead.

Dan stood there, stunned. He heard the cheers of the crowd and everything inside him went numb as he remembered the series of plays he had just called. He spun toward the field. Standing in mute horror, he watched as the ball arced through the air and sailed directly between the uprights for a Stars’ field goal.

The scoreboard flashed, and Dan Calebow felt a cold hand grip his heart.

In the subbasement of the dome, Ray cursed and slammed his foot into Phoebe’s chair. She let out a cry as it flew across the slippery floor and crashed into the end wall. Her shoulder caught the impact and shards of pain shot through her body. She tasted blood in her mouth where she bit her tongue.

Afraid of what he would do to her next, she fought against the pain and forced the chair back around so that she was facing him. But he wasn’t looking at her. Instead he was staring at the television and muttering to himself.

A close-up of Dan filled the small screen. He looked frantic, and since the score now favored the Stars 173, the commentators were making a joke about it. The sight of him made her feel as if she had been ripped open. She might die today. Was she going to be watching his face when it happened? The idea was unbearable and she forced her numb fingers to begin working at the knots that held her to the chair. As she bit back the pain her movements were causing her, she remembered their last conversation and the unshakable conviction in his voice when he had told her he would never throw a game.

I don’t do that, Phoebe. Not for anybody. Not even for you.