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"You don't seem to have the faintest idea how much trouble the team's in. Your father's dead, Carl Pogue's quit, and the acting general manager's worthless. You've got unsigned players, bills that aren't getting paid, a stadium contract that's coming up for renewal. As a matter of fact, you're about the only person left who doesn't seem to know that the team is collapsing in on itself."
"I don't know anything about football, Mr. Calebow. You're fortunate that I'm leaving all of you alone." She toyed with the lacing at her breasts, but he didn't take the bait.
"You can't just walk away from an NFL team!"
"I don't see why not."
"Let me tell you about one of the purest pieces of talent you've got—a kid named Bobby Tom Denton. Bert picked him up as a first-round draft choice out of the University of Texas three years ago, and it paid off because Bobby Tom's on his way to being one of the best."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because, Miz Somerville, Bobby Tom's from Telarosa, Texas, and being forced to live in the state of Illinois for even part of the year challenges his idea of manhood. Your father understood that, so he set out to renegotiate Bobby Tom's contract before the kid started to think too much about how he'd like to live in Dallas year-round. The negotiations were completed just before Bert died." He shoved a hand through his shaggy dark blond hair. "Right now you own Bobby Tom Denton, along with a fine offensive tackle named Darnell Pruitt, and a free safety who likes nothing more than to force the bad guys to fumble. Unfortunately, you're not getting your money's worth out of any of them because they're not playing. And do you know why they're not playing? Because you're too busy with all those boxer shorts to sign their goddamned contracts!"
A hot flare of anger shot through her, and she vaulted up from the chair. "I've just had a blazing moment of insight, Mr. Calebow. I've just realized that Bobby Tom Denton isn't the only person I own. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it also true that I'm your employer."
"That's true, ma'am."
"Then, you're fired."
He looked at her for a long moment before he gave a curt nod. "All right." Without another word, he began to walk out of the room.
As quickly as it had come, her anger dissipated and alarm took its place. What had she done? Even a fool could figure out that a person who didn't know anything about running a football team shouldn't go around firing the head coach. This was exactly the sort of impulsive behavior Viktor always warned her about.
She heard his firm footsteps hit the marble floor and rushed into the hallway. "Mr. Calebow, I—"
He turned back to her and his drawl oozed like slow poison. "My five minutes are up, ma'am."
"But I—"
"You're the one who set the time limit."
Just as he reached for the knob, a key scraped in the lock and the door swung open to reveal Viktor standing on the other side. He wore a fitted black silk T-shirt with camouflage pants, orange leather suspenders, and motorcycle boots. His dark hair streamed sleek and straight over his shoulders, and he held a brown paper sack in his hands. He was beautiful and dear, and she couldn't remember when she had been so glad to see anyone.
In the tick of a few seconds, his eyes seemed to take it all in—her frantic expression, Dan Calebow's stony one. He turned his beautiful smile on them both.
"A party! I brought you rice cakes and cabbage kimchi, Phoebe, along with chapch'ae and pulgogi for myself. You know how bad the food will be tonight, so I thought we should fortify ourselves first. Do you like Korean food, Coach Calebow?"
"I don't believe I've ever eaten any. Now, if you'll excuse—"
Viktor, with more courage than most men, stepped directly in front of Dan. "Please. I really must insist. We have the finest Korean restaurant in New York barely three blocks from here." He extended his arm to shake hands. "Viktor Szabo. I don't believe we met at that awful funeral, but I am a big fan of American football. I'm still learning, however, and I would welcome the chance to ask a few questions of an expert. The blitz, for example… Phoebe, we must have beer! When American men talk football, they drink beer. Miller time, yes?"
Viktor had gradually worked Dan back a few steps into the apartment, but now the coach planted his feet, obviously having gone as far as he intended. "Thanks for the invitation, Viktor, but I'll have to pass it up. Miss Somerville just fired me, and I don't seem to be in the mood for company."
Viktor laughed as he plopped the sack of food in Phoebe's arms. "You must learn when to pay attention to Phoebe and when to ignore her. She is what you Americans call—" He hesitated, searching for the proper phrase. "A fuck-up."
"Viktor!"
He leaned forward and planted a swift kiss on her forehead. "Tell Coach Calebow you didn't mean to fire him."
She batted him away, her pride stung. "I did mean to fire him."
Viktor clucked his tongue. "The truth now."
She was going to kill him for this. Holding on to what shreds of dignity she had left, she spoke carefully. "I meant to fire him, but perhaps I shouldn't have done it. I apologize for my short temper, Mr. Calebow, even though you provoked me. Consider yourself rehired."
He turned to stare at her. She tried to return his gaze, but the spicy odors of Korean food were stinging her nostrils and making her eyes tear so she knew she wasn't too impressive.
"The job doesn't hold much appeal for me anymore," he said.
