It Had to Be You Part 10

The kid didn't look like himself; he looked like a South American gigolo. His hair was slicked back, and he wore dark gla.s.ses along with a black T-s.h.i.+rt, baggy slacks, and one of those boxy European sport coats with the collar turned up and the sleeves pushed to his elbows.

"Jesus, Ronald, what'd you do to yourself?"

"I'm unemployed. I don't have to dress like a stiff anymore."

Dan spotted a cigarette in the kid's hand. "Since when do you smoke?"

"On and off. I just never thought it was a good idea to do it around the men." He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gestured toward the field with his head. "You're going with the new tailback sweep."

"If Fenster can learn his left from his right."

"Bucker looks good."

Dan was still distracted by the changes in Ronald, not only the difference in his appearance, but his unusual composure. "He's coming along."

"So did Phoebe pick the new GM yet?" Ronald asked.

"h.e.l.l, no."

"That's what I figured."

Dan made a snort of disgust. Phoebe'd had a list of candidates since the day she'd arrived more than a week ago, but instead of making a choice, she'd told him she wanted Ronald back. He'd reminded her they had an agreement and told her she'd d.a.m.n well better live up to it or she could find herself another head coach. When she realized he meant it, she'd stopped arguing. But they had lost their final preseason game last weekend, and with their season opener against the Broncos this Sunday, she still hadn't interviewed a single candidate.

Instead of working, she sat at the desk in Ronald's old office and read fas.h.i.+on magazines. She wouldn't use Bert's office because she said she didn't like the decor. When anybody gave her even the simplest form to sign, the bridge of her nose would pucker and she'd say she'd get to it later, but she never did. Monday, when he'd barged in on her because she'd somehow managed to hold up everybody's paychecks, she'd been painting her G.o.dd.a.m.n fingernails! He'd gotten mad then, but he'd barely begun to yell before her lip had started to tremble and she'd said he couldn't talk to her like that because she had PMS.

Sometime this week Phoebe had shot right past Valerie in her ability to make him crazy. NFL team owners were supposed to inspire a combination of respect, awe, and fear in their employees. Even seasoned head coaches tread warily around a man like Al Davis, the strong-willed owner of the Raiders. Dan knew he would never be able to hold his head up again if anybody ever found out that the owner of his team couldn't stand any yelling because she had PMS!

She was, without a doubt, the most worthless, spineless, silliest excuse for a human being he'd ever met in his life. At first he'd wondered if she might not be smarter than she let on, but now he knew she was dumber dumber than she'd let on, a world-cla.s.s bimbo who was ruining his football team. than she'd let on, a world-cla.s.s bimbo who was ruining his football team.

If only she didn't have that drop-dead body. It was hard to ignore, even for someone like him, who'd seen just about everything a woman had to offer before he'd turned twenty-one. He knew the public thought life was one big orgy for professional football players, and they were pretty much right. Even now, when s.e.x was fraught with danger, women lined up in hotel lobbies and stadium parking lots calling out to the players, flas.h.i.+ng phone numbers written on their bare midriffs, sometimes flas.h.i.+ng more.

He remembered his early playing days, when he'd picked up one, sometimes even two of them, and indulged in long, lost nights of Cutty and s.e.x. He'd done things the rest of the male population had only dreamed about, but as the novelty had worn off, he'd begun to find something pathetic about those encounters. By the time he'd reached thirty, he'd replaced the football groupies with women who had more going for them than a hot body, and s.e.x had once again been fun. Then he'd met Valerie and begun his current downward spiral. But that spiral was about to s.h.i.+ft direction now that Sharon Anderson was in his life.

On Tuesday afternoon he'd managed to stop by the nursery school again to watch her with the kids and take her out for coffee after they'd left. She had some stains on her clothes that made him want to hug her: grape juice, paste, a streak of playground dirt. She was quiet and sweet, exactly what he wanted in a woman, which made his physical response to Phoebe Somerville even more aggravating. That female belonged in leather boots and a garter belt, as far away as possible from a bunch of innocent children.

Ronald propped his foot up on the bench and stared out at the practice field. "Phoebe keeps asking me to tell her who the best candidate for the GM job is."

Dan gave him a sharp gaze. "You've seen her?"

"We-uh-spend a lot of time together."

"Why?"

Ronald shrugged. "She trusts me."

Dan never gave anything away, and he concealed his uneasiness. Was Phoebe responsible for the changes in Ronald? "I guess I didn't realize that the two of you were friends."

"Not exactly friends." Ronald took a drag on his cigarette. "Women are funny about me. I guess Phoebe's no exception."

"What do you mean funny?"

"It's the Cruise thing. Most men don't notice, but women think I look like Tom Cruise."

Dan gave a snort of disgust. First Bobby Tom decided he looked like a movie star and now Ronald. But then, as he studied Ron more closely, he couldn't deny there was a vague resemblance.

"Yeah, I guess you do at that. I never noticed."

"It makes women feel as if they can trust me. Among other things." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "It plays h.e.l.l with your love life, I'll tell you that."

Dan's instincts for danger were as well developed as a battle-hardened soldier's, and the hair on the back of his neck p.r.i.c.kled.

"How do you mean?" he said carefully.

"Women can be quite demanding."

"I suppose I never thought of you as that much of a hound with the ladies."

"I do all right." He threw down his cigarette and ground it out beneath his shoe. "I've got to go. Good luck with Phoebe. She's a real wildcat, and you're going to have your work cut out for you."

Dan had heard enough. Las.h.i.+ng out his arm, he caught Ronald by the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. "Cut out the cute stuff. What the h.e.l.l's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"You and Phoebe."

"She's an unusual lady."

"What have you told her about the candidates for the GM job?"

Despite the grip Dan had on him, Ronald's gaze was steady and disconcertingly confident. "I'll tell you what I haven't told her. I haven't told her Andy Carruthers is the best man for the job."

"You know he is."

"Not if he can't handle Phoebe."

Dan slowly released him, and his voice was dangerously quiet. "Exactly what are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying I've got your b.u.t.t in a sling, Dan, because right now the only person she trusts who knows a d.a.m.ned thing about football is me. And I got fired."

"You deserved to be fired! You weren't doing your job."

"I got her to sign those contracts the first day, didn't I? From what I hear, n.o.body else has been able to do that much."

"You had time after Bert died to prove yourself, and you blew it. Nothing got done."

"I didn't have the authority to act because Phoebe wasn't returning my phone calls." He lit a fresh cigarette and had the nerve to smile. "But I'll guarantee she returns them now."

Dan's temper ignited, and he grabbed a fistful of Ronald's fancy European lapels. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h. You're sleeping with her, aren't you?"

He had to give the kid credit. His complexion went a little pale, but he held his ground. "That's none of your business."

"No more games. What are you after?"

"You're not stupid, Dan. Figure it out for yourself."

"You're not getting your job back."

"Then you're in big trouble because Phoebe won't do anything unless I tell her to."

Dan clenched his teeth. "I ought to beat the s.h.i.+t out of you."

Ronald swallowed hard. "I don't think she'd like that. She's crazy about my face."

Dan thought furiously, but he could only come to one conclusion. Ronald had him pinned behind the line of scrimmage and n.o.body was open. It went against his grain to fall on the ball, but he didn't seem to have a choice. Gradually, he let go of the kid's s.h.i.+rt. "All right, you've got your job back for now. But you'd better control her or I'll have your a.s.s hanging inside out from the yard markers. Do you understand me?"

Ronald flicked his cigarette away and then lifted the collar of his sport coat with his thumbs. "I'll think about it."

Dumbfounded, Dan watched him walk away.

By the time Ronald reached his car, he had sweated right through his jacket. Dan! Dan! He'd called the coach He'd called the coach Dan Dan and he was still alive. and he was still alive. Oh, G.o.d. Oh, Lord. Oh, G.o.d. Oh, Lord.

Between the cigarettes and a rapid heartbeat, he'd begun to hyperventilate. At the same time, he'd never felt better in his life. Settling into the driver's seat, he grabbed the phone. After he fumbled with the b.u.t.tons for a few moments, Phoebe came on the line.

He gasped for breath and pushed the videotape of Risky Business Risky Business she had given him out from beneath his hip. she had given him out from beneath his hip.

"We did it, Phoebe."

"You're kidding!" He could envision her wide, generous smile.

"I did exactly what you said." He gasped. "And it worked. Except now I think I'm having a heart attack."

"Take some deep breaths; I don't want to lose you now." She laughed. "I can't believe it."

"Neither can I." He was beginning to feel better. "Let me change my clothes and wash this grease out of my hair. Then I'll be in."

"It won't be a minute too soon. We've got a ton of work here, and I don't have the faintest idea what to do with any of it." There was a short pause. "Uh-oh. I've got to go. I hear an ominous set of footsteps coming my way."

Quickly hanging up, she grabbed her makeup mirror with a shaking hand and lifted her pinky to her eyebrow just as Dan exploded into her office. She caught a glimpse of her secretary's startled face behind him before he slammed the door.

Her office window faced the practice fields, so she should have been used to his aggression by now. She'd seen him throw clipboards and charge onto the field when he didn't like someone's performance. She'd watched him hurl his unprotected body at a player in full equipment to demonstrate some mysterious football move. And once, when she'd been in the office late and all the players had left, she'd watched him do laps around the track wearing a sweat-stained T-s.h.i.+rt and a pair of gray athletic shorts that had revealed a set of powerfully muscled legs.

Swallowing hard, she gazed up at him innocently. "Oh, my. The big bad wolf just blew my door down. What did I do now?"

"You win."

"Goody. What's the prize?"

"Ronald." He grit his teeth. "I've decided I won't stand in your way if you want to hire him back."

"That's wonderful."

"Not from my viewpoint."

"Ron isn't quite the incompetent you seem to think he is."

"He's a weenie."

"Well, you're a hot dog, so the two of you should get along just fine."

He scowled, and then he let his eyes roam all over her with an insolence he had never before displayed. "Ronald sure figured out how to get what he wanted from you. But maybe there's something you should know. Smart businesswomen don't sleep with the men who work for them."

Even though she hadn't done anything wrong, the jab hurt, and she had to force herself to give him a silky smile. "Jealous I chose him instead of you?"

"Nope. I'm just afraid you'll move on to my players next."

She clenched her fists, but before she could respond he had stalked from her office.

Ray Hardesty stood in the shadows of the pines outside the cyclone fence and watched Dan Calebow stride back onto the practice field. Ray had to be at work soon, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he coughed and lit another cigarette, disturbing the b.u.t.ts already on the ground as he s.h.i.+fted his feet. Some of them were fresh, but others had disintegrated in last week's thunderstorms leaving behind only the swollen, yellowed filters.

Every day he told himself he wasn't going to come here again, but he came back all the same. And every day when his wife asked him where he was going, he said True Value. He never came home with any hardware, but she kept on asking. It had gotten so he could barely stand the sight of her.

Ray rubbed the back of his hand over his stubbly jaw and wasn't surprised when he felt nothing. The morning the police had come to the house to notify him that Ray Junior had died in a car crash, he'd stopped being able to tell the difference between hot and cold. His wife said it was temporary, but Ray knew it wasn't, the same way he knew he'd never be able to watch his son play football for the Stars again. Ever since that morning, his senses had been confused. He'd watch television for hours only to realize he'd never turned up the volume. He'd pour salt into his coffee instead of sugar and not notice the taste until his mug was nearly empty.

Nothing was right any more. He'd been a big shot when Ray Junior was playing for the Stars. The guys he worked with, his neighbors, the boys at the bar, everybody had treated him with respect. Now they looked at him with pity. Now he was nothing, and it was all Calebow's fault. If Ray Junior hadn't been so upset about getting cut by the Stars, he wouldn't have driven through that guardrail. Because of Calebow, Ray Senior couldn't hold his head up any longer.

For months Ray Junior had been telling him how Calebow had it in for him, accusing him of drinking too much and being some kind of G.o.dd.a.m.n druggie just because he took a few steroids like everybody else in the NFL. Maybe Ray Junior had been a little wild, but that's what had made him a great player. He sure as h.e.l.l hadn't been any G.o.dd.a.m.n druggie. Hale Brewster, the Stars' former coach, had never complained. It was only when Brewster had been fired and Calebow had taken over that the trouble started.

Everybody had always commented on how much he and his son looked alike. Ray Junior'd also had a misshapen prizefighter's face, with a big nose, small eyes, and bushy brows. But his son hadn't lived long enough to get thick around the waist, and there hadn't been any gray in his hair when they'd buried him.

Ray Senior's life had been filled with disappointments. He thought about how he wanted to be a cop, but when he'd applied, it seemed like they wouldn't take anybody but n.i.g.g.e.rs. He'd wanted to marry a beautiful woman, but he'd ended up with Ellen instead. At first even Ray Junior had been a disappointment. But his old man had toughened him up, and by the kid's senior year in high school, Ray had felt like a king as he sat in the stands and watched his boy play ball.

Now he was a n.o.body again.

He began to cough and it took him almost a minute to get the spasms under control. The doctors had told him a year ago to stop smoking because of his bad heart and the trouble with his lungs. They hadn't come right out and told him he was dying, but he knew it anyway, and he didn't much care anymore. All he cared about was getting even with Dan Calebow.

Ray Senior relished every Stars' loss because it proved the team wasn't worth s.h.i.+t without his kid. He had made up his mind that he was going to stay alive until the day everybody knew what a mistake that b.a.s.t.a.r.d had made by cutting Ray Junior. He was going to stay alive until the day Calebow had to eat the dirt of what he had done.

The smell of scotch and expensive cigars enveloped Phoebe as she entered the owner's skybox the following Sunday. She was doing what she had sworn she wouldn't-attend a football game-but Ron had convinced her that the owner of the Stars couldn't miss the opening game of the regular season.

The hexagonal Midwest Sports Dome had actually been constructed in an abandoned gravel quarry that sat at the center of a hundred acres of land just north of the Tollway. When the Stars weren't playing, the distinctive gla.s.s and steel dome was home to everything from religious crusades to tractor pulls. It had banquet facilities, an elegant restaurant, and seats for eighty-five thousand people.

"This is an expensive piece of real estate," Phoebe murmured to Ron as she took in the owner's skybox with its two television sets and front wall of windows looking down on the field. She had learned that skyboxes in the Midwest Sports Dome were leased for eighty thousand dollars a year.

"Skyboxes are one of the few profit items we have in that miserable stadium contract Bert signed," Ron said as he closed the door behind them. "This is actually two units turned into one."