It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(37)

“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.”

She gazed through the cigar smoke at the luxurious gold and blue decor: thick pile carpeting, comfortable lounge chairs, a well-stocked mahogany bar. There were nine or ten men present, either cronies of her father’s or owners of the fifteen percent of the Stars that Bert had sold several years ago when he’d needed to raise money.

“Ron, do you notice anything out of place here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Me. I’m the only woman. Don’t any of these men have wives?”

“Bert didn’t allow women in the owner’s box during games.” Mischievous lights twinkled in his eyes. “Too much chatter.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The wives have box seats outside. It’s not an unknown practice in the NFL.”

“The boys’ club.”

“Exactly.”

An overweight man she vaguely remembered having met at her father’s funeral came toward her, his eyes bulging slightly as he stared at her. She was wearing what Simone called her “carwash” dress because the clingy pink sheath was slit into wide ribbons from a point well above her knee to the mid-calf hem. With every step she took, her legs played peek-a-boo with the hot pink ribbons, while the sleeveless scoop-necked bodice clung to her breasts. The man held a cut glass tumbler filled to the brim with liquor, and his effusive greeting made her suspect it wasn’t his first.

“I hope you’re going to bring us good luck, little lady.” He ogled her breasts. “We had a rough season last year, and a few of us aren’t sure Calebow’s the right man for the job. He was a great quarterback, but that doesn’t mean he can coach. Why don’t you use that pretty face of yours to get him to open up the offense more? With a receiver like Bobby Tom, you’ve got to throw deep. And he needs to start Bryzski instead of Reynolds. You tell him that, hear?’

The man was insufferable, and she lowered her voice until it was husky. “I’ll whisper it right across his pillow this very night.”

Ronald quickly drew her away from the startled man before she could do any more damage and introduced her to the others. Most of them had suggestions for adjustments they wanted Dan to make in his starting lineup and plays they wanted him to add. She wondered if all men secretly aspired to be football coaches.

She flirted with them until she could ease away, and then walked over to the windows to gaze down into the stadium. The kickoff was less than ten minutes away, and there were far too many empty seats, despite the fact that the Stars were playing their opening game against the popular Denver Broncos. No wonder the team was having so many financial problems. If something didn’t change soon, those layoffs Dan had mentioned were going to become a reality.

The men in the skybox watched her legs while she watched a television commentator explain why the Broncos were going to beat the Stars. Ron appeared at her side. He shifted nervously from one foot to another, and she remembered that he’d seemed jumpy ever since he’d picked her up. “Is something wrong?”

“Would you mind very much coming with me?”

“Of course not.” She picked up her small purse and followed him out of the skybox into the hallway. “Has something happened I should know about?”

“Not exactly. It’s just . . .” He steered her toward one of the private elevators and pushed the button. “Phoebe, this is funny really.” The doors slid open, and he drew her inside. “You’ve probably heard that athletes are notoriously superstitious. Some of them insist on wearing the same pair of socks all season or putting on their equipment in exactly the same order. A lot of them have developed elaborate pregame rituals over the years—which doors they use, how they approach the stadium. They tuck good luck charms in their uniforms. Silly stuff, really, but it gives them confidence, so there’s no harm.”

She regarded him suspiciously as the elevator began its descent. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Not you, exactly. Well, Bert, really. And certain members of the team.” He glanced nervously at his watch. “It involves the Bears, too. And Mike McCaskey.”

McCaskey was the grandson of George Halas, the legendary founder of the Chicago Bears. He was also the Bears’ controversial president and CEO. But, unlike herself, McCaskey knew something about running a football team, so Phoebe didn’t see the connection.

The doors slid open. As she and Ron stepped out, she saw sunlight, despite the fact that she knew they were beneath the stadium. She realized they were in a hallway that ended in a large tunnel leading to the field. Ron turned her toward it.

“Ron, you’re starting to make me very nervous.”

He withdrew a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his forehead. “Mike McCaskey spends the first quarter of every Bears’ game standing on the field by the bench. He doesn’t interfere with the game, but he’s always there, and it’s become a ritual.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Bert didn’t like the fact that McCaskey was on the field while he was up in the Stars’ skybox, so a few years back he started doing the same thing, and it’s—uh—become part of the routine. The players have gotten superstitious about it.”