It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(125)

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.





25


Ron met Phoebe just inside the door of the locker room, and after assuring himself that she was unharmed, led her toward the small platform set up for the television cameras to record the postgame interviews and trophy presentation.

“I’ve spoken with the police,” he said over the pandemonium surrounding them. “They’ll talk with you as soon as the ceremonies are over. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

“Is Molly all right?” The players were shaking up champagne bottles, and Phoebe ducked a frothy shower.

“She was upset, but she’s fine now.”

As they reached the platform, Phoebe saw Dan being interviewed by O.J. Simpson. He had pulled a Super Bowl cap on over his wet hair, and as Ron helped her up next to him, she heard him sidestepping O.J.’s questions about his second-half coaching by promising a full press conference as soon as the chaos had settled down. He didn’t look at her, but as she drew near, he settled his hand comfortingly into the small of her back.

She ducked one champagne shower only to get drenched by another. Her hair dripped in her eyes and she dabbed at her cheeks as the president of the NFL came forward with the AFC Championship trophy. Standing between Dan and Phoebe, he began to speak. “On behalf of the—”

“Excuse me for one minute.” Phoebe hurried to the side of the podium where she grabbed Ron’s hand and pulled him up alongside Dan and herself.

Dan gave her an approving grin, grabbed a foaming champagne bottle from Collier Davis, and emptied it over Ron’s head. While the GM sputtered, Phoebe laughed and turned back to the NFL official. “You can go on now.”

He smiled. “On behalf of the National Football League, it is my great pleasure to present the AFC Championship trophy to owner Phoebe Somerville, Coach Dan Calebow, and the entire Stars’ organization.”

The players cheered wildly and released another shower of champagne. Phoebe tried to make a short speech, but got so choked up that Ron had to take over. OJ., still trying to get answers to his questions about the strange progress of the game, turned to interview Jim Biederot, while Phoebe passed the trophy over to Ron.

Dan grabbed her hand, pulled her off the platform, and steered her behind a celebrating cluster of players so that they were hidden from the media. “Come on. We only have a few minutes.”

He drew her around the corner toward the showers, through the equipment room, past a training room and into a hallway. The next thing she knew, he had hauled her into a small storage area, only a little bigger than a closet. No sooner had he pulled the door shut behind them than he gathered her into his arms and began to kiss her.