Match Me If You Can (Chicago Stars #6)(31)

“Family is family, and business is business. I love the boy, but not that much.”

“Who are you kidding?” Heath had said. “You’d walk over coals for him.”

“Yes, but I’d leave my checkbook behind while I was doing it.”

Heath gazed toward the practice field. Although training camp wouldn’t start for more than a month, a few players were running drills with the team’s trainer. He nodded toward a fourth-year player, one of the Zagorskis’ clients. “Keman’s looking good.”

“He’d look a lot better if he spent more time in the weight room and less time selling used cars on TV. But Dan likes him.”

Dan Calebow was the Stars’ president and Phoebe’s husband. They’d met when Phoebe had inherited the Stars from her father. At the time, Dan had been the head coach and Phoebe had known nothing about football, something that was hard to believe now. Their early battles were nearly as legendary as their ensuing love story. Last year one of the cable channels had made a cheesy movie about them, and Dan was still getting ribbed because he’d been portrayed by a former boy band singer.

“I want a three-year contract,” Phoebe said, getting down to the business of Caleb Crenshaw.

“Yeah, I’d want one, too, if I were you, but Caleb’s only signing for two years.”

“Three. It’s not negotiable.” She stated her case without consulting notes, reeling off complex statistics in her breathy, sex-kitten’s voice. They both had excellent memories, and he didn’t write anything down, either.

“You know I can’t advise Caleb to take that offer.” He propped his foot on the bench next to her. “By the third year, he’ll be worth millions more than you’ll be paying him.” Which was exactly why she wanted the three-year deal.

“Only if he stays healthy,” she retorted, as he’d known she would. “I’m the one taking all the risk. If he blows out his knee that third year, I’ll still have to pay him.” She went on from there, emphasizing her altruism and the unending gratitude a player should feel for simply being allowed to wear the uniform of football legends like Bobby Tom Denton, Cal Bonner, Darnell Pruitt, and, yes, Kevin Tucker.

Heath threatened a holdout, even though he had no intention of carrying it through. What he’d once seen as a canny bargaining tool he now regarded as a desperate measure guaranteed to do more harm than good.

Phoebe bore down, hitting him with more breathy statistics, peppered with allusions to ungrateful players and blood-sucking agents.

He countered with statistics of his own, all of them pointing toward the fact that tightwad owners ended up with resentful players and a losing season.

In the end, they arrived at the place they’d both pretty much known they’d reach. Phoebe got her three-year contract, and Caleb Crenshaw got a one-and-a-half-million-dollar signing bonus for the insult. Win. Win. Except it was an agreement they could have reached three months ago if Phoebe hadn’t gone out of her way to make things as hard for him as she could.

“Hey, Heath.”

He turned to see Molly Somerville Tucker approaching. Kevin’s wife couldn’t have been more different from the standard-issue knockout blond NFL spouse. Her body was trim and compact, but hardly memorable. Except for a pair of blue-gray eyes that tilted up at the corners, she and Phoebe bore little physical resemblance. He definitely liked Molly a lot more than he liked her sister. Kevin’s wife was smart, funny, and easy to talk to. In some ways, she reminded him of Annabelle, although Annabelle was smaller, and her shock of russet curls bore no resemblance to Molly’s straight brown bob. Still, they were both feisty smart-asses, and he wasn’t letting down his guard in front of either of them.

Molly had a baby in her arms, one Daniel John Tucker, aged nine months. She held a curly-haired little girl by the opposite hand. Heath was glad to see Molly, neutral about seeing the baby boy, and less than pleased to be in the presence of the three-year-old girl. Thankfully, Victoria Phoebe Tucker had a more important target in sight.

“Aunt Phoebe!” She dropped her mother’s hand and made her way toward the Stars’ owner as fast as her small feet, clad in bright red rubber boots, could carry her. The boots looked weird with her purple polka-dot shorts and top. It also hadn’t rained in two weeks, but he had personal experience with Pippi Tucker’s single-mindedness, and he didn’t blame Molly for choosing her battles.

In a case of like attracting like, Phoebe hopped up from the bench to greet the little curly-haired larcenist. “Hey, punkin’.”

“Guess what, Aunt Phoebe…”

Heath tuned the kid out as Molly came over to him. She touched the side of his neck. “I don’t see any puncture marks, so your meeting must have gone well.”

“I’m still alive.”

She shifted the baby from one arm to the other. “So have you found Mrs. Champion yet? Annabelle’s got this weird—and totally unnecessary—thing going about confidentiality.”

He smiled. “I’m still looking.” He grabbed the baby’s drooly fist as a distraction. “Hey, pal, how’s that throwing arm coming along?”

He wasn’t great with kids, and the little boy buried his face in his mother’s shoulder.

“No football,” Molly said. “This one’s going to be a writer like me. Aren’t you, Danny?” Molly kissed the top of the baby’s head, then frowned. “Have you talked to Annabelle today?”