It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(77)

“You were displaying a lot more than team spirit.”

“She’s filling up some of the empty seats,” Ron said. “Many of them with women, by the way.” He looked at Dan. “Your suspension was my decision and I take full responsibility for yesterday’s loss. I’m also giving you both a warning. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but I don’t want to get caught in the cross fire again. Is that understood?”

“Understood,” Dan said brusquely.

“There’s nothing going on,” Phoebe said. Dan’s steady gaze was making her uncomfortable. Once again she reminded herself that—temporarily, at least—these two worked for her. She stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

The corner of Dan’s mouth kicked up. “Say howdy to your buddies over at Playboy for me.”

She repressed a smile as she left the room and headed for her office, where she spent the rest of the day reading reports and studying the spreadsheets on her computer screen that detailed the team’s complex finances. As she jotted figures on the steno pad she kept next to the keyboard, she admitted to herself that it felt good to use her brain again.

Their next game was being played at Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands for ABC’s “Monday Night Football.” Since no team wanted to lose in front of such a sizable television audience, Monday night games were considered to be among the most important of the season. As the week advanced the already tense atmosphere at the Stars Complex grew so explosive that fights began to break out among the players, while the staff snapped at each other, and Dan snapped at everyone. The team’s recent bad publicity had made it impossible for Phoebe to continue hiding from the media, and her dread of the upcoming game was compounded when she reluctantly agreed to ABC’s request for a halftime interview.

The players were tightly strung, the chartered plane virtually silent as it left O’Hare on Sunday afternoon for Newark. “It’s like a morgue back there,” Phoebe said to Ron as the flight attendants handed them the drinks they had requested: beer for Ron, tomato juice for her. “I don’t think it’s good for the players to be so tense.”

“Dan’s worked them as hard as I’ve ever seen this week, and they know what’s at stake. We have everything riding on this game.”

She had done more than stare at spreadsheets this week; she had also read a year’s worth of back issues of several well-regarded sports magazines, and she nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I still don’t think they should be so uptight. Maybe that’s why they’re fumbling the ball so much.”

“The only thing that will make them relax is finally having a win behind them.”

“If they don’t loosen up a little, that might not happen.”

“I sincerely hope you’re wrong.”

He turned his attention back to Forbes. She hesitated for only a moment before she leaned down and surreptitiously lifted the latch on the small dog carrier she had stowed beneath her legs.

Seconds later, the interior of the plane was filled with shrill yips as Pooh tore down the center aisle.

In the row of seats ahead of her, Dan’s head shot up, and he whirled around to face her. “Damn it, Phoebe! You brought that dog with you!”

“Oops.” Her lips formed a small, pink oval as she stood and squeezed past Ron. “Excuse me. I seem to have misplaced my pooch.”

Ignoring Dan, she made her way into the coach section of the plane, where she immediately heard the rumble of male laughter. As she had hoped, the players welcomed the distraction Pooh was providing. The poodle scooted between their feet, scrambled over their carryons, and licked any uncovered human part she could reach.

Bobby Tom reached down to snare her, but she dodged and crouched between Webster Greer’s feet. Phoebe couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of Pooh’s fluffy little head with its perky periwinkle bow perched on top of Webster’s size fourteen sneakers. She gazed warily up the aisle at her mistress and tried to figure out how much trouble she’d gotten herself into.

“I don’t think she wants you to catch her,” Webster observed.

“She’s not too fond of her carrier.”

Since Pooh seemed to be doing fine on her own, Phoebe began chatting with the players nearby, asking them about their families, the books they were reading, the music they were listening to on their Walkmans. Pooh had moved on to curl over the prized right foot of the team’s placekicker, but as Phoebe came closer, the dog darted across the aisle only to have Darnell Pruitt, the Stars’ largest offensive tackle, scoop her up.

“This what you’re looking for, Miss Somerville?”

Phoebe hesitated. Of all the men on the team, Darnell Pruitt was the most intimidating. A gold tooth studded with a half-carat diamond glistened in the front of his mouth, and heavy gold chains draped his black leather vest. He was shirtless beneath the vest, revealing a huge chest and heavily muscled forearms displayed in all their polished ebony glory. His eyes were hidden behind menacing black sunglasses, his nose was broad and flat, and a heavy scar puckered one shoulder. An article she had read just the day before in Sports Illustrated had described Darnell as one of the five meanest men in the NFL, and as she studied him, she saw no reason to disagree. She noticed that his teammates had left the seat next to him empty.