She ducked and said the words as fast as she could.
The quarterback gave an audible sign of relief. "Thanks, Miss Somerville." He jogged away.
The Stars had won the coin toss, and both teams lined up for the kickoff. To her dismay, Dan began running toward her sideways while he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the field. He was tethered by the long cord on his headset, but it didn't seem to hinder his movements. He drew to a stop beside her, his eyes still glued to the field. "Do you have the gum?"
"The gum?"
"The gum!"
She suddenly remembered the Wrigley's Ron had thrust into her hand and unclenched her fingers, which were rigidly clasped around it. "It's right here."
"Pass it over when the kicker tees the ball. Use your right hand. Behind your back. You got it? Now don't screw up. Right hand. Behind your back. When the kicker tees the ball."
She stared at him. "Which one's the kicker?"
He began to look mildly crazed. "The little guy in the middle of the field! Don't you know anything? You're going to screw this up, aren't you?"
"I'm not going to screw it up!" Her eyes flew to the field as she frantically tried to identify the kicker. She picked the smallest of the players and hoped she was right. When he leaned over to position the ball, she shot her right hand behind her back and slapped the gum into Dan's open palm. He grunted, shoved it in his pocket, and rushed off without so much as a thank you. She reminded herself that only minutes earlier, he'd referred to the players' superstitions as ridiculous.
Seconds later, the ball arced into the air and pandemonium broke out before her. Nothing could have prepared her for the gruesome sounds of twenty-two male bodies in full battle gear trying to kill each other. Helmets cracked, shoulder pads slammed together, and the air was filled with curses, growls, and groans.
She pressed her hands to her ears and cried out as a platoon of uniformed men rushed toward her. She was frozen to the spot while the Stars' player carrying the ball charged toward her. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The crowd went wild as he raced toward the sidelines pursued by a pack of white-and-orange-clad monsters from hell. She saw that he couldn't stop-he was going to run right over her-but she couldn't save herself because her knees had locked. At the last moment he swerved and charged into his teammates on the sidelines.
Her heart was in her throat, and she thought she was going to faint. Fumbling with the catch of her tiny shoulder bag, she groped inside for her rhinestone sunglasses, nearly dropping them as she clumsily slipped them on for protection.
The first quarter ticked by with agonizing slowness. She could smell the players sweat, see their sometimes dazed, sometimes crazed expressions, hear their shouted obscenities, one profanity after another until repetition had stripped even the filthiest of words of any meaning. At some point, she realized she was no longer standing there because she had been told to, but as a test of strength, her own private badge of courage. Maybe if she handled this challenge, she could begin to handle the rest of her life.
Never had seconds felt more like minutes, minutes more like hours. Through the corner of her eye, she watched the Star Girl cheerleaders in their sleazy gold costumes with blue spangles and applauded whenever they did. She dutifully clapped as Bobby Tom caught one pass after another against what she would later hear described as a strong Broncos' defense. And more frequently than she liked, she found her eyes straying to Dan Calebow.
He paced the sidelines, his dark blond hair glazed by the bright sunlight streaming through the center of the dome. His biceps stretched the short sleeves of his knit shirt and veins throbbed in his muscular neck as he shouted out instructions. He was never still. He paced, raged, bellowed, punched the air with his fist. When a call late in the quarter angered him, he yanked off his headset and began to charge the field. Three of his players leapt from the bench and physically restrained him, their response so well orchestrated she had the feeling they'd done it before. Even though this team was legally hers for the next few months, she knew that it belonged to him. He terrified her and fascinated her. She would have given anything to be that fearless.
The whistle finally blew, signaling the end of the quarter. To everyone's surprise, the Chicago Stars were tied with the Broncos, 7-7.
Bobby Tom dashed over to her, his expression so jubilant that she couldn't help smiling back. "I hope you're gonna be where I can get to you when we play the Chargers next week, Miz Somerville. You're bringin' me luck."
"I think your talent is bringing you luck."
Dan's voice rang out, his tone fierce. "Denton, get over here! We've got three more quarters to play, or have you forgotten that?"
Bobby Tom winked and trotted away.
Chapter 9
Phoebe stood in the flickering shadows of the torches that had been placed at intervals around the pool at the Somerville estate and watched as five giggling women surrounded Bobby Tom Denton. None of the Stars' management or staff had regarded Bert's death or the fact that Phoebe would soon be moving out of the house as an excuse to cancel the party he had hosted each year after the season opener. While Phoebe had been at the game, her secretary had supervised the caterers setting up for the event. Phoebe had replaced her carwash dress with a slightly less conspicuous apricot knit tank dress.
The team's loss that afternoon to the Broncos had cast a pall over the early hours of the gathering, but as the liquor had begun to flow more freely, the mood had grown livelier. It was nearly midnight now, and the platters of steaks, ham, and lobster tails had been demolished. Phoebe had been introduced to all the players, their wives, and girlfriends as they arrived. The players were scrupulously polite to their new owner, but being around so many athletes had brought back too many bad memories, so she had removed herself to a wooden bench set by a clump of japonica bushes well off to the side of the pool.
She heard a familiar voice and felt a queer jolt as she looked toward the patio and saw Dan. Ron had told her that Sunday night was one of the busiest times for the coaches as they graded the players on their performances that afternoon and worked on the game plan for next week. Even so, she had found herself looking for him all evening.
She watched from the shadows as he moved from one group to another. Gradually, she realized he was drawing closer. She saw that he was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and the contrast between those studious glasses and his rugged good looks did strange things to her insides.
She crossed her legs as he came up to her. "I've never seen you in glasses."
"My contacts bother me after about fourteen hours." He took a sip from the can of beer in his hand and propped his foot on the bench next to her.
This man really was a Tennessee Williams wet dream, she thought, as a film strip slowly unwound in her head. She could see him in the shabby library of a decaying plantation house, his white shirt damp with sweat from a lusty encounter with young Elizabeth in the brass bed upstairs. He had a cheroot clamped between his teeth as he thumbed impatiently through an old diary trying to discover where his great-grandmother had buried the family silver.
Her body felt warm and languid, and she had to suppress the urge to rub against him like a cat.
The burst of loud laughter that came from the pool pulled her back to reality. She looked over in time to see five of Bobby Tom's women shove him into the water fully dressed. When he didn't immediately come up for air, she gritted her teeth. "I'm forcing myself not to run over and pull him out."
Dan chuckled and took his foot down from the bench. "Relax. You have even more money invested in Jim Biederot than in Bobby Tom, and Jim's just lassoed one of the chimneys so he can climb the side of the house."