It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(62)

She still felt woozy from her crying jag last night. Sometime around four in the morning, she had finally taken a long, painful look inside herself and realized there was only one explanation for the depth of hurt she was feeling. She was letting herself fall in love with Dan Calebow.

Her chest spasmed in a short, painful hiccup. Afraid she would start crying all over again, she dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to find some rational explanation for how she had let such a disaster happen. She should have been the last woman in the world to have succumbed to a sexy Southern drawl and a gorgeous set of biceps. But there it was. Some hormonal imbalance, some reckless streak of self-destruction, had sent her flying too close to the sun.

And how hot that sun had burned last night. She had never imagined making love could be like that—funny and tender and wonderful. Her throat tightened as she reminded herself that she might have been making love, but he had been having sex.

She realized she was dangerously close to tears, and she couldn’t afford to fall apart again. Fixing a blazing smile on her face, she walked out into the Oregon sunshine, where she planned to exact at least a small measure of revenge for every sweet second she’d spent last night lying in his treacherous arms.

The photographers spotted her before the crowd did. A prerecorded tape began playing the old standard, “Ain’t She Sweet?” She realized this must be the surprise Ron had said he would have for her when she went on the field. She was going to be the only owner in the NFL with her personal theme song.

Accompanied by wolf whistles, she struck a pose, blew a kiss, and walked toward the bench, her hips wiggling to the beat. The photographers snapped away at the dazzling red and black python-printed leather jeans that hugged every curve of her lower body, and the fitted black silk man’s vest cupping her bare breasts. The owner of the trendy boutique next to the hotel had been persuaded to open the door just for her at ten o’clock that morning after Phoebe had decided the conservative linen dress she’d brought with her would no longer do. The boutique owner had suggested a man’s bow tie to accessorize the outfit, but Phoebe had chosen to loop a more feminine bit of black lace ribbon around her throat, while she showed her team spirit with clusters of silver stars dangling from her earlobes. The outfit was expensive, outrageous, and completely inappropriate, a flagrant in-your-face to Dan Calebow.

She had known how he would feel about it even before she saw him turn his head to see what all the fuss was about. At first he looked stunned, then murderous. For a moment their eyes locked. She wanted to blast him with her most smoldering gaze, but she couldn’t manage it. Before he could sense her misery, she turned her attention to the photographers, who were calling her name. While they recorded her every curve, she knew she had never felt less womanly. Why had she ever thought a man like Dan could look at her as anything more than a body?

Bobby Tom came trotting up. “I got a feeling you’re going to bring me luck today.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She took her time giving him his kiss and then acknowledged the crowd’s cheers with a wave. Jim Biederot appeared for his pregame insult. Several of the other players sidled up, and she wished them luck. Ron had pressed a pack of Wrigley’s in her hand before the game, but Dan didn’t approach her at the kickoff to claim it.

The ball arced into the air, and when the massive bodies of the players began to collide, she managed to avoid slapping her hands over her eyes. Although it was still terrifying to be near so much mayhem, she realized as the quarter progressed that she wasn’t quite as panicked as she had been the week before. Ron had been teaching her the rudiments of the game, and more than once, she found herself caught up in the action.

Later, in the skybox, she had the satisfaction of watching Dan get ejected in the fourth quarter after insulting one of the refs. Inspired by her good luck kiss, Bobby Tom had caught five passes for 118 yards, but it wasn’t enough to make up for his teammates’ fumbles, especially against a powerhouse like the Sabers. With six turnovers, the Sabers beat the Stars by eighteen points.

She and Ron returned with the team on the charter flight back to O’Hare. She had changed from her python jeans into comfortable slacks and a red cotton sweater that hung to mid-thigh. As she approached Dan, who was sitting in the front row of first class and scowling over next week’s game plan with Gary Hewitt, the offensive coordinator, she wished she could slip past him before he noticed her. Since that wasn’t possible, she stopped momentarily beside his seat, arched her eyebrows, and flipped the pack of Wrigley’s into his lap.

“You really should learn to control your temper, Coach.”

He gave her a glare that could have scorched concrete. She quickly moved on.

After the plane took off, she left her seat in first class next to Ron and walked into the cabin to speak with the players. She was stunned to see how banged up they were. The team physician was giving one of the veterans a shot in the knee, while the trainer worked with another. Many of the men sported ice packs.

They seemed to appreciate the fact that she was willing to converse with them after an embarrassing loss. She noticed that there was a definite pecking order to the way in which they were seated. The coaches, GM, and important press occupied first class, while Stars staff members and the camera crew sat in the front of the coach section. The rookies occupied the next few rows, and the veterans took up the back of the plane. Later, when she asked Ron why the veterans chose the rear of the plane, he told her they liked to get as far away from the coaches as possible.