It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(122)

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.