It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars Book 1)

“There’s no other way to look at it, Ice,” Tully Archer said, speaking to Dan Calebow out of the side of his mouth as if they were Allied spies meeting in the Grunewald to exchange military secrets. “Whether you like it or not, the blond chicky’s in the driver’s seat.”

“Bert must have had his brains in his ass.” Dan scowled at the waiter, who was approaching with another tray of champagne, and the man quickly backed off. Dan hated champagne. Not just the sissy taste, but the way those silly glasses felt in his big battle-scarred hands. Even more than the champagne, he hated the idea of that blond bimbo with the drop-dead body owning his football team.

The two coaches were standing in the spacious observation deck of the Sears Tower, which had been closed to the public for that evening’s United Negro College Fund benefit. The floor-to-ceiling sweep of windows reflected banks of flowers grouped around trellis arches, while a woodwind quintet from the Chicago Symphony played Debussy. Members of all the area sports teams were mingling with local media figures, politicians, and several movie stars who were in town. Dan hated any occasion that required a tuxedo, but when it was for a good cause, he forced himself to go along with it.

Beginning with his years as the starting quarterback for the University of Alabama’s Crimson Tide, Calebow’s exploits both on and off the field had become the stuff of legends. As a pro, he had been a bloodthirsty, hell-raising, in-your-face barbarian. He was a working man’s quarterback, not a glamour boy, and even the meanest defensive lineman failed to intimidate him, because in any confrontation Dan Calebow assumed he was either stronger than the other guy or smarter. Either way, he planned to come out the winner.

Off the field he was just as aggressive. At various times he had gotten himself arrested for disturbing the peace, destruction of personal property, and, in the early days of his career, possession of a controlled substance.

Age and maturity had made him wiser about some things but not about others, and he found himself studying the newest congresswoman from Illinois as she stood in a cluster of formally dressed people behind Tully. She wore one of those black evening gowns that looked plain but probably cost more than a new set of Pings. Her light brown hair was pulled to the nape of her neck with a flat velvet bow. She was beautiful and sophisticated. She was also attracting a considerable amount of attention, and he didn’t fail to note that he was one of the few people at the gathering she hadn’t sought out. Instead, a flashy brunette in a tight silver dress came up to him. Turning her back to Tully, she regarded Dan through eyelashes so thick with mascara he was surprised she could still bat them.

“You look lonely over here, Coach.” She licked her lips. “I saw you play against the Cowboys right before you retired. You were a wild man that day.”

“I’m just about a wild man every day, honey.”

“That’s what I hear.” He felt her hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket and knew she was leaving her phone number. He tried to remember if he’d unloaded his pockets from the last time he’d worn this tux. With a moist smile that promised him everything, she moved away.

Tully was so accustomed to having his conversations with Dan broken into by predatory females that he went on as if there had been no interruption. “The whole thing galls me. How could Bert have let something like this happen?”

What Phoebe Somerville was doing to his football team outraged Dan so much he didn’t want to think about it when there was nothing around for him to hit. He distracted himself by looking for the beautiful congresswoman and spotted her speaking with one of Chicago’s aldermen. Her aristocratic features were composed, her gestures constrained and elegant. She was a class act from head to toe, not the sort of woman he could imagine with flour on her nose or a baby in her arms. He turned away. At this point in his life, a flour-dusted, cookie-bakin’, baby-makin’ woman was exactly what he was looking for.

After more years of raising hell than he wanted to count and a marriage that had been a big mistake, Dan Calebow was in a serious settlin’-down mood. At the age of thirty-seven, he yearned for kids, a whole houseful of them, and a woman who was more interested in changing diapers than taking over Chrysler.

He was on the brink of turning over a new leaf. No more career women, no more glamour pusses, no more sex bombs. He had his eyes out for a down-home woman, the kind who’d enjoy having a toddler mess up her hair, a woman whose idea of high fashion was a pair of blue jeans and one of his old sweatshirts, an ordinary kind of woman who didn’t turn heads and make men crazy. And once he’d committed himself, his roaming days would be over. He hadn’t cheated on his first wife, and he wasn’t going to cheat on his last one.

Next to him, Tully Archer was still gnawing over the subject of Phoebe Somerville. “You know I don’t like to speak ill of anybody, especially the fairer sex, but that blond chicky called me ‘sugarplum.’ Damn, Ice. That’s just not the sort of person should be owning a football team.”

“You got that right.”

Tully’s Santa Claus face puckered like a baby’s. “She’s got a poodle, Dan. Now both of us know the Bears’ coaches are always fighting with Mike McCaskey, but damn, at least they’re not working for an owner who carries around a French poodle. I tell you, I’ve been avoiding all of them since that funeral. I’ll bet they’re bustin’ a gut laughing at us.”

Once Tully got wound up. it was hard to stop him, and he moved on to the next subject. Dan noted that the congresswoman was gradually making her way to the elevator banks, a cadre of aids surrounding her as she departed. He glanced at his watch.

“This was supposed to be the transitional year for us, Ice,” Tully said. “Bert fired Brewster last November and hired you as head coach. We got lucky on Plan B, did better than we expected in the draft, and even won a couple of games at the end of the season. But who could have figured Carl Pogue would quit and we’d end up having Ronald in charge of operations?”

A muscle ticked in the corner of Dan’s jaw.

Tully shook his head. “Phoebe Somerville and Ronald McDermitt, the Stars’ new owner and acting general manager. I tell you, Ice, even Vince Lombardi’s laughing at us, and just think how long he’s been dead.”

Silence fell between them as both men’s thoughts took equally dismal paths. In the six weeks that had passed since Bert’s funeral, Phoebe had disappeared, bringing team business to a standstill because no one else was authorized to sign contracts. When she couldn’t be located, Carl Pogue, the Stars’ general manager, had quit in frustration and subsequently taken a job in the Commissioner’s Office. Now, Ronald McDermitt, the man who had been Carl Pogue’s assistant, was the Stars’ acting general manager, completing the chronicle of disaster.

The terms of Bert’s will had been leaked to the media, leaving all of them stunned. Like everyone else, Dan had assumed Bert would pass the Stars on to Reed immediately, not at the end of the season. Although Reed Chandler had a good reputation in the community, Dan had always found him a bit slippery, and he hadn’t looked forward to working for him. Now, however, he would have given just about anything to see Reed sitting in Bert’s old office.

“Howie told me you’ve been trying to get in touch with Ray Hardesty. You’re not feeling guilty about finally letting me cut him, are you, Dan?”

Dan shook his head, even though the cut still bothered him. “We had to do it.”

“Damn right. He was missing more practices than he was making, and there was no way he was going to pass a drug test.”

“I know that.” Lyle Alzado’s death from steroid abuse hadn’t taught guys like Ray Hardesty a damn thing. Dan knew Tully had been right to insist that Ray be cut from the team, and he should have done it when Ray had been picked up for his second DUI arrest of the year. Instead, he’d dragged his heels, giving the Stars’ veteran defensive end more last chances than he would have given anybody else. Hardesty had been a great player until his drinking and drugging had gotten out of control, and Dan had wanted to exhaust all of his options. He’d done his best to get Ray into rehab. He’d talked to him until he was blue in the face about showing up on time for practice and at least pretending to follow the rules, but Ray hadn’t been listening to anybody except his street corner pharmacist.

Tully tugged at his collar. “Did you know that Ronald took me aside a couple of days after Carl quit and told me to put more pressure on you to cut Hardesty?”

Dan hated talking about the Stars’ acting general manager nearly as much as he hated talking about the new owner. “Why didn’t Ronald talk to me in person?”

“He’s scared to death of you. Ever since you stuffed him in that locker.”

“He made me mad.”

“Ronald was never anything more than Carl’s gofer.” Tully shook his head. “Everybody knows he only got the job because Bert owed his daddy a favor. I know Bert would never have let his daughter get her hands on the Stars if he knew Carl was going to quit. Ronald’s a candy ass, Ice. Did I tell you about the time Bobby Tom was foolin’ around after practice last season when Ronald came out to the field? You know how Bobby Tom is, just havin’ a little fun, says, ‘Hey, Ronnie, we’re looking for a new wide-out.’ And he lobs the ball at him real soft, couldn’t have been more than five yards. Anyway, Ronald puts up his arm to catch it and jams his finger. He starts shaking his hand like somebody killed him. Bobby Tom like to bust a gut. How can you respect a general manager can’t even catch a lob like that?”

Tully’s monologue was interrupted by one of the subjects under discussion, last year’s starting wide receiver for the Stars, Bobby Tom Denton. Bobby Tom liked to dress well, and his impeccably tailored black tuxedo was accompanied by a ruffled white dress shirt, glittering silver bow tie, lizardskin boots, and a big black Stetson.

As far as anybody knew, the only time Bobby Tom took off his Stetson was when he put on his helmet. One of his many girlfriends had told the National Enquirer he even wore it when he made love. Her word was suspect, however, since she’d also told the Enquirer that Bobby Tom was the illegitimate son of Roy Orbison, a statement that had mightily upset Bobby Tom’s mother, despite the fact that anybody who’d ever heard Bobby Tom sing could have figured out it was a lie.

Bobby Tom nodded his Stetson at Tully and Dan. “Coach. Coach.”

Dan nodded back. “Bobby Tom.”

The wide receiver turned to Tully. “Hey, Coach, what d’ya think? That redhead over there told me all her girlfriends think I’m the best-looking wide-out in the league. What about you? Do you think my profile’s better than Tom Waddle’s?”

Tully contemplated the wide receiver’s profile while he gave the question serious consideration. “I don’t know, Bobby Tom. Waddle’s nose is straighter than yours.”

Bobby Tom tended to get belligerent when anyone challenged his good looks, and tonight was no exception. “Is that so? For your information she said I look like that movie star—what’s his name? Christian Slater.” Bobby Tom frowned. “Either of you know who Christian Slater is?”

Neither of them did.

For a moment Bobby Tom looked befuddled. Then he snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and grinned. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing about him. He’s a damned fine looking sonavabitch.”

They all laughed. Dan liked Bobby Tom off the field, but he liked him even better on. One of the best wide receivers Dan had seen in years, he had guts, brains, and hands so soft you couldn’t even hear the ball hit when he caught it. What he didn’t have was his new contract signed, and that fact was driving Dan to contemplate murdering a certain blond bimbo.

Bert had died just as he’d been finishing the complex negotiations with Bobby Tom’s shark of an agent. Now there was no one in the Stars’ organization with authorization to sign the final contract except Phoebe Somerville, whose answering service reported that she was on vacation and couldn’t be reached.

Bobby Tom wasn’t Dan’s only unsigned player, either. He had an offensive tackle named Darnell Pruitt, who was so good he was scary, and a young safety who had led the Stars in forced fumbles last season. None of them would be traveling to the Meadowlands that weekend for the Stars’ fourth preseason game against the Jets. And if something didn’t happen soon, none of them would be in uniform for the season opener in two weeks.

Thanks to the disappearing bimbo, Dan Calebow was in danger of losing three of the most promising players in the league. He understood the way the NFL worked, and it didn’t take a crystal ball to know there were a dozen team owners waiting in the wings with open checkbooks and saliva dripping from their jaws just hoping those three players were going to lose patience with a team that was rapidly becoming a joke.

At an early age the sting of his daddy’s belt had taught Dan that winning was what counted in life. He’d always been an aggressive competitor, mowing down anyone who got in his way, and right then he made a promise to himself. If he ever got his hands on a certain brainless bimbo, he’d teach her a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget.

“Hi, Coach, I’m Melanie.”

Bobby Tom’s gaze roamed over the shapely young beauty who had eyes only for Dan. The young wide receiver shook his head. “Damn, Coach. You got more women than I do.”

“I’ve got a head start on you, Bobby Tom. You’ll catch up.” He put his arm around the girl. “Now what did you say your name was again, honey?”

Dan heard the siren just as he reached the point on the Eisenhower Expressway where the East West Tollway split off to the left. He had abandoned Melanie at the reception an hour ago, and as he glanced in the rearview mirror he was glad his heavy drinking days were behind him.

He pulled his red Ferrari 512 TR over. The car was too small for him, but he put up with the lack of legroom because the Testarossa was the most beautiful driving machine in the world. Still, two hundred thousand dollars was an obscene amount of money to pay for a car when people were sleeping on the streets, and after he bought it, he’d written a matching check to one of his favorite charities. Most years he gave away more money than he spent, which he figured was only right considering how much he was worth.

By the time the trooper approached the driver’s side of the car, Dan had his window lowered. The cop had already taken in the Testarossa’s distinctive “ICE 11” vanity plates.

He braced his elbow on the hood of the car and leaned down. “Evening, Coach.”

Dan nodded.

“I guess you’re in a hurry.”

“What d’you get me at?”

“You were doing eighty-seven when you passed Mannheim.”

Dan grinned and slapped the steering wheel. “Damn, I love this car. I was holding it down, too. There are a lot of fools on the road tonight.”

“You can say that again.” The cop took a few moments to admire the car before he returned his attention to Dan. “How do you think you’ll do against the Jets this weekend?”

“We’ll give it our best.”

“Bobby Tom signed yet?”

“Afraid not.”

“That’s too bad.” He took his arm away. “Well, good luck, anyway. And ease up on the gas pedal, will you, Coach? We got some boys on duty tonight who are still nursing a grudge over that sneak you called on fourth and one when you lost to the Browns last year.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

It was almost one in the morning when Dan pulled back onto the expressway, and traffic was fairly light. He had already removed the jacket of his tuxedo, and as he shot into the left lane, he tugged off his bow tie and unfastened his shirt collar.

Despite a blemished record with the law, he liked cops. They’d stood by him ever since he was a twelve-year-old punk caught stealing beer. And the cops in Tuscaloosa had done a lot more to set him straight when he was playing for the Tide than his old man. One of them had even managed to convince him of the value of a college education one night after the cops had broken up a brawl between Dan and some upperclassmen from Auburn at a bar called Wooden Dick’s.

“You got brains, boy. When you gonna start usin’ them?”

The cop had talked to him most of the night and made him begin to think about his long-term future. Football was Dan’s ticket out of the poverty he had grown up in, but the cop made him realize that he wouldn’t always be able to play.

Over the next few semesters, he had gradually replaced his phys ed and industrial arts classes with courses in business, math, and finance. By his junior year he was doing well with a demanding academic schedule, despite too much late-night carousing. His greatest satisfaction at ‘Bama was realizing he had a brain and not just athletic talent.

He exited at Cermak Road into the affluent sprawl of Oak Brook and wound through the side streets until he saw the convenience store on his right. He pulled into the lot, turned off the ignition, and got out of the small, sleek car.

There were five people inside the convenience store, but only two of them women. One was a dyed redhead and he dismissed her right away. The other looked too young to be in a 7-Eleven so late at night. She was standing by the Hostess display chewing a wad of bubble gum and contemplating the Ho Hos. Her bangs were teased, but the rest of her hair was pulled back from her face and fastened at the crown of her head with a silver clip. Even though the evening was warm and muggy, she had both hands buried in the pockets of a high school jacket with “Varsity Cheerleader” written in script over her left breast.

She saw him approaching, and her jaw stalled in mid-chew. A short, skintight Spandex skirt peeked out several inches from beneath the school jacket. Her legs were thin and bare, her feet shoved into a pair of black flats. As he stopped in front of her, he noticed she was wearing too much makeup the way young girls sometimes did.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“Do you now?”

“Uh-huh.” She took three staccato chews—nervous, but not giggly. “You’re the Stars’ football coach. Dan—uh—Mr. Calebow.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Tiffany.”

“Is that so.”

“I’ve seen you on television lots of times.”

“How old are you, darlin’?”

“Sixteen.” Her eyes began to rove over him with a maturity far beyond her years. “You’re cute.”

“And you look real grown-up for sixteen.”

“I know.” She worked her gum for a few seconds then looked down at the toes of her shoes. “My folks are gone for the night. You want to come back to my house with me, Mr. Calebow?”

“And do what?”

“You know. Have sex.”

“Don’t you think you’re a little young to pick up an old guy like me?”

“I’m tired of boys. I want to do it with a man.”

A video game machine beeped near the doorway.

“I like my women with a few more years on them.”

She slipped one hand from the pocket of her school jacket and, moving close enough to him so no one in the store could see what she was doing, brushed upward along the inside of his thigh. “I’ll be real good to you.” Her hand grew bolder. “Please. I promise. I’ll let you do anything you want.”

“When you put it like that, doll baby, you make it tough to refuse.”

She took her hand away as if she were embarrassed by her brazenness and pulled a set of keys from her pocket. “I’m driving my dad’s car. Follow me.”

The car was a late model Mercedes. Dan kept the tail-lights in view as he drove through the quiet, tree-lined streets into an exclusive residential area. The house, an imposing two-story white brick, sat on a wooded lot. As he pulled into the driveway, he saw the muted lights of an elaborate crystal chandelier glowing through the leaded glass fanlight over the front door.

The house had a three-car garage opening off to the side, and the door on the left slid up. She drove the Mercedes in. He parked behind it and got out. When he was inside the garage, she pushed the button that closed the door.

Her little Spandex skirt hugged every curve of her bottom as she walked up the two steps that led into the house. “You want a beer?” she asked as they entered a dimly lit white kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances and a restaurant-sized, stainless steel refrigerator.

He shook his head.

The lights fell softly on her overly made-up face. She set down her purse and kicked off her flats. Without removing her school jacket, she reached underneath her skirt and pulled off her panties. They were light blue.

She dropped them on the white tiled floor. “You want some taco chips or gum or something?”

“Yeah, I want something, all right.”

For several seconds she stood completely still. Then she led him from the kitchen. He followed her through a softly lit hallway into a spacious living room containing white-washed oak furniture upholstered in rich, gem-colored fabrics. The faux marble walls displayed large canvases of original art and broken stone pediments held several pieces of sculpture.

“Daddy must have some big bucks,” he drawled.

“We’re Italian. He’s with the mob, but nobody’s supposed to know. Do you want to see one of his guns?”

“I’ll pass on that.”

She shrugged and led him into another room, which was dark until she flicked the switch on a small desk lamp with a black paper shade. The light revealed that she’d chosen the study instead of a bedroom. A sleek black desk sat at one end in front of a set of bookcases. More pricey art hung on the walls, and plantation shutters covered the windows. She stopped between a mulberry leather sofa and matching club chair.

“You sure you don’t want something to drink, Mr. Calebow?”

“I’m sure.”

She gazed at him for a moment, and then her hands went to the row of buttons on the front of her white blouse. One by one, she unfastened them.

“How ’bout you get rid of that gum for me.”

She walked over to the desk, her expression sulky, and removed the large pink wad from her mouth. Reaching past a stack of papers, she stuck it in a carved alabaster ashtray. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he saw her breasts as she leaned forward. The glow from the desk lamp gilded her small nipples.

“Sit up on the desk, darlin’.”

The Spandex skirt rode high on her thighs as she eased her hips onto the front edge. She parted her legs, keeping the balls of her feet resting on the carpet.

He walked toward her, discarding the cummerbund of his tux. “You’re a pretty wild kid, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh. I get into a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll just bet you do.” He slipped his hands beneath the school jacket and then under her blouse, pulling it from the waistband of her skirt. His big hand traveled upward along her spine and moved to the front. He cupped her small breasts and brushed her nipples with his thumbs.

Her hands moved to the slide on his zipper. For a moment she did nothing, and then she shivered. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“You seem to be doing real fine all by yourself.”

“Tell me, dammit!”

“All right, darlin’. Open my zipper.”

“Like this?”

“Just like that.”

“Now what?’

“Reach around a little bit and see if you can find anything that catches your interest.”

His breathing quickened as she followed his instructions to the letter.

“You’re real big.” She cradled him in her hands as she arched her back so that her breasts were pressed deeper into his palms. “I’m getting scared.”

“Oh, I’ll take it real easy on you.”

“You will?”

“I promise.”

“It’s okay if it hurts a little.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s okay. Really.”

“If you say so.” He smelled bubble gum on her breath as he caught her by the knees and drew them upward, then braced her heels on the desktop. The skirt bunched across her stomach. He moved between her open thighs and slipped a finger inside her.

“Does that hurt?”

“Oh, yes. Yes! What are you going to do to me?”

He told her. Roughly. Explicitly.

Her breathing grew heavier and he could feel the heat of her skin. He pushed off her school jacket and, slipping his hands beneath her bare buttocks, lifted her from the desk. She wrapped her legs around his hips and ground her breasts against the tucks of his shirt front as he carried her to the big leather club chair. He settled into it and positioned her knees on each side of his hips so that she straddled him.

Her blouse hung open displaying breasts that were rosy from the abrasion of his shirt. Her splayed legs revealed the glistening thicket of curls between her thighs. He was throbbing, and he began to pull her down so she could take him, but she resisted.

“You’re not going to spank me first, are you?”

He groaned.

“Are you?” she repeated.

He surrendered to the inevitable. “Did you do something wrong?”

“I’m not supposed to let anyone in the house when my parents are gone.”

“I guess I’ll have to whale you, then, won’t I?”

“No, don’t!” Her eyelids drifted closed with excitement.

He was ready to explode and no longer in the mood to play games. Making up his mind not to take long with this, he pushed her down over his lap and shoved her skirt all the way to her waist. With her buttocks bared to his gaze, he smacked the flat of his hand on her soft, round flesh.

He was a powerful man, but he carefully leashed his strength, giving her only a bit more than she wanted. She gasped and writhed beneath his blows, growing increasingly more excited.

As her buttocks took on a faintly rosy hue, he thought of all the trouble his ex-wife was causing him. The late-night phone calls when she ripped his character to shreds, the legal hassles, that newspaper interview.

“Ouch! That’s too hard!”

Once again the flat of his hand connected with her tender flesh. “Are you going to be good, darlin’?”

“Yes!”

“How good?”

“Ouch! Stop!”

“Tell me how good you’re going to be.”

“Good! I’ll be good, dammit!”

He spanked her again. “No nasty little digs in the newspapers.”

“All right. Stop!”

“No more late-night harangues on the telephone.”

“You’re ruining everything!”

He slipped his hand between her legs. “I don’t think so.” And then he lifted her.

She immediately impaled herself on him. “You son of a bitch.”

He drove deep. “That’s right, I’m a son of a bitch.”

She rode him viciously. The phone on the desk began to ring, but they both ignored it. Harsh moans slipped from her throat as she grabbed his dark blond hair in her fists. He buried his face in her breasts while his fingers dug into her buttocks.

The ringing stopped and the answering machine clicked on.

She threw back her head and yelled as she shattered.

This is Valerie Calebow. I can’t come to the phone right now. If you leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

The machine beeped and then spoke. “Congresswoman, it’s Stu Blake. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but . . .”

The voice droned on.

With a groan, Dan spilled himself inside her. She slumped against him as the message came to an end.

Beep.