It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars Book 1)

On the sideline Dan called Jim Biederot over. He hoped the quarterback didn’t notice the unsteadiness in his voice. “We’re making some changes in the next series, Jim.”

By the time he’d finished giving his instructions, Biederot’s eyes had narrowed into indignant slits above the black smudges that angled across his cheekbones. “Those are goddamn running plays! I’m hitting every receiver I look at.”

“Do what you’re told or you’ll sit!” Dan shot back.

Biederot gave him a glance of pure fury and stalked over to Charlie Cray, one of the assistants. Within seconds, he had grabbed Charlie’s headset and was shouting into it.

Dan knew Jim was speaking with Gary Hewitt, his offensive coordinator, who sat with Tully in the coaches’ box high in the dome. Before Hewitt could start giving him hell, too, he tried to swallow enough of his fear so he could sort out his thoughts.

Hardesty had said he was watching on television, which meant he’d be able to see any unusual movement on the sideline or in whatever part of the stadium was within camera range. As a consequence, Dan couldn’t risk notifying the police. Once they knew that Phoebe truly had been kidnapped, they’d be all over the place, including right here on the sideline asking him questions. Even worse, they might decide to call the game, a circumstance that could very well push Hardesty right over the edge.

He briefly debated using his headset to contact Ron, but he was afraid Hardesty might be listening in. Although Dan didn’t understand all the intricacies of the internal communications system, he knew Hardesty could only have accessed it from within the dome. That meant he might, even now, be eavesdropping on conversations between the sideline and the coaches’ box. It also mean that Phoebe was tucked away somewhere nearby.

He swiped at his forehead with his sleeve as he tried to figure out what to do about Ron. Since he couldn’t explain what had happened over the headset, he grabbed his clipboard and scribbled a quick note, making it cryptic enough so that it would be meaningless to anyone else who read it.

I spoke with the player we were discussing at halftime. Your negative assessment of the situation was correct. It is urgent that you take no further action. I’ll explain after the game.

He slipped the note to one of the equipment men to deliver and told himself that Phoebe would come out of this unharmed. Anything else was unthinkable.

For the first time, he let himself consider how his actions would affect her ownership of the Stars after all this was over and she was safe. Although there was no precedent for what was happening, he couldn’t imagine the NFL would let this game stand—not unless the Stars won despite his coaching, which he wouldn’t let happen. Once the NFL learned that he had deliberately thrown the game, ensuring a Stars’ loss, they would schedule a rematch and she would still have a chance to keep the team.

And then an ugly thought struck him. What if the police didn’t believe that she had been kidnapped? If Hardesty got away, there wouldn’t be any tangible proof other than her own testimony. Dan was the only one who could back up her story, and his personal involvement with her would make his word suspect. She could very well be accused of fabricating the kidnapping simply because the Stars had lost and she wanted another shot at retaining ownership. There was no way the NFL would let this game be replayed.

He forced himself to face the painful fact that his failure to notify the police was going to cost Phoebe the Stars. Still, he couldn’t do anything else. He wouldn’t take a chance with her life, not for the world.

Gary Hewitt’s voice crackled through his headset. “Dan, what the hell’s going on? Why did you tell Jim to keep it on the ground? That’s not our plan. He’s never passed better.”

“I’m making some changes,” Dan snapped. “We’ve got the lead, so we’re going to play smart.”

“It’s only the third quarter! It’s too early to get conservative.”

Dan couldn’t have agreed more, so he simply removed his headset and glued his eyes to the field. No matter what he had to do, he was going to keep Phoebe safe.

By the middle of the quarter the Sabers had scored their first touchdown while the Stars’ ground game had failed to move the ball, reducing their lead to seven points. The fans’ booing had grown so loud that the offense was having a hard time hearing Biederot’s signals. Dan’s assistants were furious, the players livid, and, two minutes into the fourth quarter, when the Sabers evened the score at seventeen, the network’s color man ran out of patience.

“Can you believe what you’re seeing?” He was practically shouting into the cameras. “All season, Dan Calebow has been one of the most aggressive coaches in the NFL, and it’s terrible to see him fold like this. This isn’t the kind of football the fans came to watch!”

Phoebe tried to shut out the commentator’s understandably harsh assessment of Dan’s coaching, just as she’d been trying to ignore the sound of the crowd’s jeers. She didn’t want to think about what this public humiliation was doing to his pride, and she knew she had never loved him more.

Her wrists, chafed raw by her struggles to get free of the ropes, were bleeding. Ignore the pain, she told herself. Play through it. Everything she had heard the players say, she repeated to herself, but she was beginning to think the knots would never loosen.

Hardesty had tied her wrists in a figure eight of rope, then secured the free ends to the vertical post that supported the back of the chair. Although her fingers had become sticky with blood as she worked at that tight double knot that held her in the chair, it wouldn’t give. Play through the pain. Shake it off.

Hardesty stared at the screen, took a drag on his cigarette, and coughed. The air was so thick with smoke that she could barely breathe. Sometimes she thought he had forgotten her, but then he would look at her with eyes so empty of any remorse that she didn’t doubt he would kill her.

Five minutes into the fourth quarter, the Sabers pulled ahead. On the sideline the emotions of the players and assistants reflected everything from fury to despondency, while the crowd had begun to throw debris on Dan. He stood alone, isolated by the players and the coaches. Only his iron discipline was keeping a full revolt from breaking out on the bench.

Sabers 24, Stars 17.

As the Sabers kicked the extra point, Biederot slammed his helmet against the bench, hitting it with such force that the face mask cracked. Dan knew it was only a matter of time before Jim ignored the threat to bench him and began calling his own plays. With less than ten minutes left on the clock and the temper of the crowd growing uglier by the minute, he could no longer keep the game on the ground.

All his life Dan had been a team player and going it alone had become too risky. Praying that he wasn’t making a fatal mistake, he called Jim and Bobby Tom over just before the offense took the field again.

Jim’s face was ruddy with fury, Bobby Tom’s rigid. Both of them started spewing obscenities.

“Bench me, you cocksucker! I don’t give a skit because I don’t want to be part of this.”

“We didn’t work this fucking hard to have you fuck us like this!”

A minicam zoomed in on them. Dan grabbed their arms and ducked his head. His voice was low and fierce. “Shut up and listen! Phoebe’s been kidnapped. The man who has her is crazy. He says he’s going to kill her if we win this game.” He felt the muscles in their arms grow rigid, but he didn’t glance up because he was certain the cameras were on him. “He’s watching on television. I can’t let the team score even a field goal because he’s threatened to hurt her if we put any numbers on the board.” He sucked in his breath and lifted his head. “I believe he’ll do it.”

Biederot swore softly, while Bobby Tom looked murderous.

Dan let every one of his emotions show in his eyes as he called the next series of plays. “Make it look good. Please. Phoebe’s life depends on it.”

He could see they had a dozen questions, but there was no time to ask them, and to their credit, neither man offered any argument.

In the subbasement below the dome, Phoebe heard the crowd cheer. Her bloody fingers grew still on the knot, and her eyes snapped to the television. She stopped breathing as Jim threw a long pass over the middle to Bobby Tom. Bobby Tom extended his body in the lean, graceful line that had been photographed so often, with his weight balanced only on the tips of his toes. How many times this season had she seen him snatch the ball out of the air from exactly that position, defying gravity as effortlessly as a ballet dancer?

But not this time. The crowd groaned as the ball bounced off his fingertips. Bobby Tom fell to the turf, and she remembered to breathe again.

It was the first long pass Biederot had thrown in the second half, and she wondered if Dan’s control over the men had at last snapped. She refused to think about what that would mean. Not now. Not when the knot that held her to the chair had finally given way.

She had been so excited when it had shaken loose, but that small moment of triumph had evaporated when she realized she was still bound. Although she was no longer tied to the chair, her wrists were secured by a knot she hadn’t previously discovered, this one holding together the figure eight of rope he had whipped around them. She was free of the chair, but that wasn’t good enough when Hardesty had a gun and she couldn’t use her arms.

The camera moved in for a close-up of Bobby Tom. Pain had dulled her senses, and several seconds ticked by before she noticed that something was wrong. When Bobby Tom missed one, his customary good humor always deserted him. He screwed up his face and cursed himself. But now, even on the small TV screen, she could see that his expression was devoid of any emotion.

He knows. Every one of her intuitive powers made her certain that Dan had told him what had happened. She knew how much this game meant to Bobby Tom, and she could only imagine what it had cost him to deliberately miss the ball. Her anger burned as she stared at Hardesty’s back. He had no right to steal this day from them.

The Stars punted and the Sabers began their next series, while the scoreboard clock continued to tick.

7:14 . . . 7:13 . . . 7:12 . . .

The Sabers began a series of passing plays. She thought of the way the men looked after the games: dirty, limping, bloody. In her mind she saw them on the plane coming back from road games, with their knees wrapped in ice packs, their shoulders bandaged, while they popped pain killers so they could sleep. Not one of those men wouldn’t do anything for the Stars.

6:21 . . . 6:20 . . . 6:19 . . .

With so little time left, she wasn’t at all certain she could undo the last knot before the clock ran out. It was loosening, but not quickly enough. She had the awful feeling that she was letting down the team, that somehow she wasn’t trying hard enough.

5:43 . . . 5:42 . . . 5:41 . . .

Portland scored another field goal. Sabers 27, Stars 17. She had to make a decision. She could play it safe and stay where she was, hoping he would let her go at the end of the game. Or she could risk everything to win her own freedom.

Dan’s face came on the screen, and she made up her mind. She wasn’t going to lose him or the Stars without a fight. Her mind raced. She would only have one chance, and she had to pick her moment.

5:07 . . . 5:06 . . . 5:05 . . .

Hardesty bent forward, racked by another of his hacking coughs. She planted her feet and shoved hard against the floor. The chair flew forward.

He spun awkwardly as he heard the wheels squeak. With a harsh exclamation, he lifted his fist to strike her. She drew up her legs and rammed her heel into his groin.

He gave a scream of pain and doubled forward. She shot up, drawing her arms over the back of the chair, her wrists still tied behind her. She stumbled for the door. Twisting the knob behind her back, she popped the lock and rushed out into the hallway.

She ran awkwardly in the direction of the elevator while she continued to tug at her wrists. But although the ropes were looser, she still couldn’t slip free. She heard a groan from behind her and glanced back to see Hardesty staggering through the doorway.

She lurched toward a gray metal door marked “Stairs” and stumbled, barely righting herself before she fell. Once again precious seconds ticked by as she turned her back to pull on the door handle. A loop of rope slipped down over her fingers making the process even more difficult. Hardesty, still doubled over, moved forward.

“You bitch. . . .” he gasped.

Terror shot through her as he fumbled for the gun on his hip. The door into the stairwell swung open. She pushed herself inside, then screamed and hunched her shoulders as bits of concrete exploded from the wall in front of her, showering her with stinging debris.

She gave a choked cry. Before he could fire at her again, she began struggling up the stairs, frantically tugging at the tangled ropes that were making her movements so awkward. She had almost reached the landing when one of the loops finally slipped loose. She freed herself from the rest just as she heard that awful wheeze coming from below her, the sound amplified in the hollow stairwell.

“Bitch!”

She spun and saw him at the bottom of the stairwell, where his face was purple and he was gasping for air as if he were strangling. Paralyzed, she stared at the gun that was pointed directly at her.

“I’m not . . .” He sagged against the wall, clutching his heaving chest. “I’m not . . . going to let you . . .”

The gun wavered, releasing her from her paralysis. She raced around the bend of the landing. Another shot rang out, hitting the wall behind her. She didn’t dare stop to see if he was following as she flew up the remaining stairs. When she reached the door, she heard a cry of pain that was almost inhuman. She pulled on the handle just as the thud of a heavy weight hitting the floor echoed in the stairwell.

She dashed out into the hallway, trying desperately to orient herself. She heard the noise of the crowd and realized that she had stumbled into the far end of the corridor that led to the Stars’ locker room. Wasting no time, she headed toward the field tunnel, throwing off her sequined blue jacket with its bloodstained cuffs as she ran.

A security guard stood at the mouth of the tunnel. He whipped around when he heard the clatter of her shoes. As she ran toward him, he gaped at her rumpled hair, torn stockings, and bloody wrists.

“One of the guards is lying at the bottom of the stairwell by the locker room!” She fought for breath. “I think he’s had a heart attack. Be careful. He’s crazy and he has a gun.”

The man stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Before he could question her, she ran past him toward the field. The guard stationed at the fence recognized her and jumped back from the gate. The Sabers’ offense was on the field. She looked at the scoreboard.

2:58 . . .

And then, all she saw was the back of Dan’s head.

The problems between them evaporated as she ran toward the bench. Players were blocking her way, and she shoved at their jerseys.

“Let me through! Let me by!”

One by one they stepped aside, clearly astonished to see her. Bobby Tom and Jim Biederot caught sight of her and began to rush forward.

“Dan!”

He whirled around as she called out his name. His face contorted with a depth of emotion she had never seen, and she leapt into his arms.

“Phoebe! Thank God! Oh, thank God, Phoebe . . .” Over and over he muttered her name as he held her tight against his chest.

The sideline minicam zeroed in on them, while in the owner’s skybox, Ron shot to his feet and ran for the door. Meanwhile in the broadcasting booth, the announcers were stumbling all over each other trying to explain why the Stars’ owner was embracing the coach who had spent the past two quarters of the game cold-bloodedly leading her team into disaster.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. He returned the kiss and hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe.

“Can you still win?” she whispered.

“As long as you’re safe, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” His voice was gruff with emotion, and she drew back far enough to see that his eyes were filled with tears. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said. “I love you so much. Oh, God, I love you.”

She locked the words away like a treasure to be drawn out later. For now, she could only think of him and what he’d done for her.

“I want you to win. You’ve worked so hard.”

“It’s not important”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” She realized she was crying.

He hugged her hard. “Don’t cry, honey. Let’s just be happy you’re alive.”

She realized he thought she wanted this for herself. “You don’t understand. I don’t want you to win for me! I want you to do it for yourself!”

“We’re behind by ten, honey. There are less than three minutes on the clock.”

“Then you’d better get to work.”

He smoothed her hair back from her face, and his eyes were so full of love that all the doubts she’d had about his feelings evaporated.

“We’d have to score two touchdowns to win, and right now the men hate my guts.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“Phoebe . . .”

She cupped his cheek. “I love you, Coach. Now get to work. That’s an order.”

Leaving his arms took all her willpower, but she pulled away while he still looked dazed from her declaration. She’d barely taken two steps before Bobby Tom and Jim were at her side.

“Are you all right?” Bobby Tom’s face was pale with concern. “Damn, Phoebe, you had us so scared.”

“I’m fine.” She grabbed their arms. “I want to win this game. I want Dan to be able to win it.”

“If we had more time—”

Phoebe cut Jim off. “I don’t care about that. I can’t let this happen to him. Not to any of you.”

She turned away and raced toward Darnell. Somehow she had to restore the players’ faith in their coach, but she had so little time. He looked alarmed as he saw the state she was in, and he took a quick step forward.

“Phoebe, what happened to you?”

As quickly as possible, she explained. Attempting to catch her breath at the end, she said, “Dan was only trying to protect me. Tell the other linemen that. We’re going to win this game.”

Before he could question her, the players who were not on the field began to surround her, and she repeated her story. As they pelted her with questions, the Sabers punted.

Dan had his headset back on and was shouting instructions. Jim slapped his shoulder and dashed onto the field with the offense.

The two-minute warning sounded.

Dan hunched forward, his hands splayed on his thighs. The Stars were playing without a huddle. Phoebe dug her fingernails into her palms as the action on the field began to unfold.

Jim drilled a pass to his tight end for a completion. On the next play he just missed the tailback on a screen pass. And then on third down, he threw incomplete.

The Stars’ trainer appeared at her side and began to wrap her wrists in gauze. Word of what had happened had spread through the team, and Webster Greer came up next to her like a bodyguard.

Jim connected for a first down at the thirty-eight yard line, and the dome reverberated with cheers.

The Sabers’ defense was slow to adjust to the no-huddle passing attack. Dry-mouthed, Phoebe watched her team move to the seventeen.

1:10

Biederot connected with Collier Davis. Phoebe screamed as Davis took it in for the touchdown.

The fans went wild.

On the sideline Dan was huddled with the kickoff team and special teams’ coordinator.

The Stars made the extra point. Sabers 27, Stars 24.

0:58

As the Stars’ kickoff team lined up, the crowd anticipated the onside kick, knowing the Stars had to regain possession of the ball. The onside kick was a maneuver Dan had forced the players to practice hundreds of times during the season, until they could perform it flawlessly. But this wasn’t a practice, and the other team knew that short, potentially lethal kick was coming.

Phoebe glanced over at Dan. He looked fierce and wonderful.

The ball rotated with a crazy spin as it came off the side of the kicker’s foot. It barely traveled the required ten yards before it hit the hands of a Sabers’ halfback. He tried to hold onto it, but couldn’t. Elvis Crenshaw blasted him.

It was anybody’s ball, and twenty-two men dived for it. Helmets cracked and the men’s snarls were audible on the sidelines even through the screams of the crowd.

The whistle blew and the refs began pulling off players. Phoebe dug her fingers into Webster’s arm.

One by one the men got up—Stars, Sabers—until there were only two players left on the ground, one in a sky blue jersey and one wearing crimson.

Dan gave a jubilant yell.

The Sabers’ player staggered up, leaving only Darnell Pruitt clasping the football.

The crowd noise was deafening. Darnell jumped up and threw his arms in the air. The Stars had recovered the ball on their own forty-eight yard line.

0:44

Dan slapped Biederot on the back as he ran onto the field. On the first play, Jim completed a pass to the forty-two.

0:38

The Sabers’ defense, anticipating that the passing attack would continue, set up deep to protect against the bomb. Instead, they were suckered in by one of the sweetest running plays Dan had ever called. First and ten on the twenty-two.

0:25

The Stars’ next two passes were incomplete, and Phoebe tried to prepare herself for defeat.

0:14

Biederot called for their remaining time-out and raced over to Dan on the sideline. They engaged in a furious dialogue. Jim ran back out.

The atmosphere in the dome was electric. As the teams lined up, Phoebe looked at the scoreboard. It was third down and they were twenty-two yards away.

Jim threw another incomplete pass.

0:08

Dan signaled wildly as the players rushed back into formation. But instead of the field goal that could bring them a tie and put them into sudden death, the Stars were going for a touchdown. Fourth down and twenty-two yards away.

Jim took the long snap from shotgun formation and searched for his favorite target, Phoebe’s sweet-footed, nimble-fingered $8-million wide-out from Telarosa, Texas.

Bobby Tom made a sharp cut at the seven to lose his man. The ball spiraled toward him. He leapt up and snatched it out of the air in a gesture so graceful it was almost feminine.

Defenders lunged for him.

He spun toward the goal line. He stumbled. Just as he righted himself, he got hit from the side. Once more he spun free.

But Brewer Gates, the Sabers’ star safety, was barreling toward him.

Bobby Tom knew he was going to get hit, but he left his body unprotected as he stretched the ball out in front of him and threw himself at the goal line.

With bared teeth and a bone crusher’s roar, Gates lunged to meet him at the two yard line.

And was blasted straight into the air by Darnell Pruitt.

Bobby Tom hit the ground hard, every muscle in his lean runner’s body extended. His head was ringing and he tried to clear his vision.

0:01

Through his face mask, he followed the line of his arms to his hands. They cradled the ball directly on top of the goal line.

The ref’s arms shot up in the air, signaling the touchdown. The screams of the crowd shook the curved walls of the dome.

Phoebe was laughing and crying. Webster hugged her, then Elvis Crenshaw. Pandemonium broke out on the field and in the stands as the final gun sounded.

She tried to get to Dan, but she couldn’t move through the sea of blue jerseys that surrounded her. She scrambled up onto the bench and spotted him pushing through the men to reach her. His face was split by a huge grin and their eyes locked. She threw one arm up into the air and laughed. Behind him, she saw several of the players approaching with an enormous green plastic container held high. She laughed harder as they emptied it over his head.

A shower of Gatorade and ice sloshed over him. He hunched his shoulders and yelled as he received the victory baptism.

Some members of the crowd booed. They had no knowledge of the drama that had taken place behind the scenes, and they still wanted Dan’s blood for forcing the game into such a desperate finish.

He shook his head, sending droplets flying everywhere as he cleared his eyes enough so that he could see Phoebe again.

Bobby Tom threw his arm around Dan’s shoulder and shoved the game ball at him. “This one’s for you, pardner.”

The men hugged. Dan clutched the ball to his chest and once again turned toward Phoebe.

He swiped at his face with one dry cuff and saw that she was still standing on the bench. She looked like a goddess rising above the sea of swirling blue jerseys, her blond hair glittering in the lights. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and he loved her with all his heart. The strength of his feelings no longer frightened him. Having come so close to losing her, he would not take that risk again.

The men were getting ready to lift him to their shoulders, but he didn’t want to go anywhere without her. He turned toward her as the players swept him off his feet and began to carry him through the crowd. She was laughing. He laughed back. And then everything inside him grew alert as something in the stands behind her caught his attention.

In a sea of screaming, shifting fans, Ray Hardesty stood in eerie stillness. Every muscle in his body was rigid with hatred as he glared at Dan from the front row. Dan saw the glint of a gun in his hand even before he lifted his arm.

Everything happened in a matter of seconds, but each fragment of time became a still photograph, an image of horror that would be frozen forever in his mind. Dan, bobbing high on the players’ shoulders, had become an open target, but Hardesty, with a madman’s insight, had found a better way to destroy the man he hated. Strobes flashed, reporters shouted questions at him, and Dan watched in impotent horror as Hardesty adjusted his aim so that the gun was pointed directly at the back of Phoebe’s head.

A mass of security guards swarmed toward Hardesty. Those in the front saw his gun, but they couldn’t use their own weapons in the middle of the teeming crowd.

In the foreground, Phoebe, unaware of the peril she was in, still laughed. Dan had no weapon, nothing to protect the woman he loved with all his heart. Nothing except the game ball cradled against his chest.

He was part of an exclusive fraternity of great quarterbacks, but as his hand closed around the football, he was no longer in his prime. Instinctively, his fingertips settled into the position that felt more familiar to him than the contours of his own face.

The names of the immortals flashed through his mind: Bart Starr, Len Dawson, Namath and Montana, the great Johnny U. himself. None of them had ever had this much at stake.

He drew back his arm and fired the ball. It shot above the heads of the crowd, low and hard, a fierce spiral, as perfectly thrown as any ball in the history of professional sports.

In the front row of the stands, Hardesty spun sideways as the ball slammed him in the shoulder. The force sent him sprawling into the seats, and the gun flew from his hand.

Phoebe, who had finally realized something was wrong, whirled around just in time to see a bevy of security guards converging directly behind her in the stands. Before she could see what had happened, Bobby Tom and Webster had grabbed her and she, too, was being carried toward the field tunnel.