It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(38)

A distinct uneasiness was creeping through her. “Ron—”

“You have to stand on the field with the team for the first quarter,” he said in a rush.

“I can’t do that! I don’t even want to be in the skybox, let alone out on the field!”

“You have to. The men expect it. Jim Biederot is your starting quarterback, and he’s one of the most superstitious athletes I’ve ever met. Quarterbacks are like tenors; they’re easily upset. And Bobby Tom was quite vocal about it before the game. He doesn’t want his karma disrupted.”

“I don’t care about his karma!”

“Then how about your $8 million?”

“I’m not going out there.”

“If you don’t, you’re ducking your responsibilities and you’re not the person I thought you were.”

This last came out in a rush, and it gave her pause. But the idea of standing on the field filled her with a fear she didn’t want to face. She searched her mind for a plausible excuse other than panic.

“My clothes aren’t right.”

His eyes shone with admiration as he studied her. “You look beautiful.”

Her knee and a good portion of her thigh poked through the hot pink ribbons as she lifted one foot to show Ron a strappy sandal with a three-inch heel. “Mike McCaskey wouldn’t go on the field dressed like this! Besides, I’ll sink.”

“It’s Astroturf; Phoebe, you’re grasping at straws. Frankly, I expect better of you.”

“Some part of you is actually enjoying this, isn’t it?”

“I must admit that when I saw you in that dress, it occurred to me that your appearance might spark ticket sales. Perhaps you could wave to the crowd.”

Phoebe uttered a word she hardly ever used.

He regarded her with gentle reprimand. “Let me remind you of our initial partnership agreement. I was to supply the knowledge and you were to supply the guts. Right now, you’re not holding up your end of the deal.”

“I don’t want to go out on the field!” she exclaimed in desperation.

“I understand that. Unfortunately, you have to.” Gently clasping her arm at the elbow, he began steering her up the slight incline that led to the end of the tunnel.

She tried to hide her panic behind sarcasm. “Two weeks ago you were a nice guy with no leadership qualities.”

“I’m still a nice guy.” He led her out of the mouth of the tunnel into the blazing sunlight. “You’re helping me develop my leadership qualities.”

He escorted her down the concrete walkway, through the fence, and onto the field, guiding her behind the milling players to a spot just beyond the end of the bench. She knew she was perspiring, and a swell of anger toward her father swept through her. This team was his toy, not hers. As she gazed at the players, their bodies padded to superhuman size, she was so frightened she felt light-headed.

The sun streaming through the glass hexagon at the center of the dome shone on her hot pink dress and some of the people in the crowd called out her name. It surprised her that they knew who she was until she remembered that the story of Bert’s will had become public. She’d already turned down dozens of requests for interviews with everyone from the local papers to NBC. She forced herself to fix a bright smile on her face, hoping no one would notice how unsteady it was.

She realized Ron was getting ready to leave her, and she grabbed his arm. “Don’t go!”

“I have to. The players think I’m bad luck.” He thrust something into her hand. “I’ll be waiting for you in the skybox when the quarter’s over. You’ll do fine. And, uh—Bert always slapped Bobby Tom’s butt.”

Before she could absorb that unwelcome piece of information, he rushed off the field, leaving her alone with dozens of grunting, sweating, battle-hardened men, who were hell-bent on inflicting mayhem. She opened her fist and stared down at her hand in bewilderment. Why had Ron given her a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint gum?

Dan appeared at her side, and she had to fight down a crazy desire to throw herself in his arms and ask him to protect her. The desire faded as he speared her with unfriendly eyes.

“Don’t move from this spot till the end of the quarter. Got it?”

She could only nod.

“And don’t screw up. I mean it, Phoebe. You have responsibilities, and you’d better carry out every single one of them. You and I might think the players’ superstitions are ridiculous, but they don’t.” Without any further explanation, he stalked away from her.

The encounter had only lasted for a few seconds, but she felt as if she’d been broadsided by a bulldozer. Before she could recover, one of the men came charging toward her dangling his helmet by the face guard. Although she had kept herself away from the players, she recognized Bobby Tom Denton from his photograph: blond hair, broad cheekbones, wide mouth. He looked tense and edgy.

“Miz Somerville, we haven’t met, but—I need you to slap my butt.”

“You—uh—must be Bobby Tom.” A very rich Bobby Tom.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She absolutely could not do this. Maybe some women were born to be butt-slappers, but she wasn’t one of them. Quickly lifting her hand, she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. “How about a new tradition, Bobby Tom?”