It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(39)

She waited with apprehension to see if she’d done something irreversible to his karma and, in the process, blown $8 million. He began to frown and the next thing she knew, hot pink ribbons whipped her legs as he snatched her up off the ground and planted a resounding smack on her lips.

He grinned and set her back down. “That’s an even better tradition.”

Hundreds of people in the crowd had caught the exchange and as he trotted away, she heard laughter. Dan had also observed the kiss, but he definitely wasn’t laughing.

Another monster headed toward her. As he approached, he barked an order to someone behind him and she saw the name “Biederot” on the back of his sky blue jersey. This must be her temperamental quarterback.

When he finally came to a stop next to her, she took in his blue-black hair, meat-hook nose, and small, almost feminine mouth. “Miss Somerville, you gotta—Your father—” He stared at a point just beyond her left ear and lowered his voice. “Before every game, he always said, ‘Eat shit, you big bozo.’ “

Her heart sank. “Could I—Could I just slap your butt instead?”

He shook his head, his expression fierce.

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.