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Dan was still distracted by the changes in Ronald, not only the difference in his appearance, but his unusual composure. "He's coming along."
"So did Phoebe pick the new GM yet?" Ronald asked.
"Hell, no."
"That's what I figured."
Dan made a snort of disgust. Phoebe'd had a list of candidates since the day she'd arrived more than a week ago, but instead of making a choice, she'd told him she wanted Ronald back. He'd reminded her they had an agreement and told her she'd damn well better live up to it or she could find herself another head coach. When she realized he meant it, she'd stopped arguing. But they had lost their final preseason game last weekend, and with their season opener against the Broncos this Sunday, she still hadn't interviewed a single candidate.
Instead of working, she sat at the desk in Ronald's old office and read fashion magazines. She wouldn't use Bert's office because she said she didn't like the decor. When anybody gave her even the simplest form to sign, the bridge of her nose would pucker and she'd say she'd get to it later, but she never did. Monday, when he'd barged in on her because she'd somehow managed to hold up everybody's paychecks, she'd been painting her goddamn fingernails! He'd gotten mad then, but he'd barely begun to yell before her lip had started to tremble and she'd said he couldn't talk to her like that because she had PMS.
Sometime this week Phoebe had shot right past Valerie in her ability to make him crazy. NFL team owners were supposed to inspire a combination of respect, awe, and fear in their employees. Even seasoned head coaches tread warily around a man like Al Davis, the strong-willed owner of the Raiders. Dan knew he would never be able to hold his head up again if anybody ever found out that the owner of his team couldn't stand any yelling because she had PMS!
She was, without a doubt, the most worthless, spineless, silliest excuse for a human being he'd ever met in his life.
At first he'd wondered if she might not be smarter than she let on, but now he knew she was dumber than she'd let on, a world-class bimbo who was ruining his football team.
If only she didn't have that drop-dead body. It was hard to ignore, even for someone like him, who'd seen just about everything a woman had to offer before he'd turned twenty-one. He knew the public thought life was one big orgy for professional football players, and they were pretty much right. Even now, when sex was fraught with danger, women lined up in hotel lobbies and stadium parking lots calling out to the players, flashing phone numbers written on their bare midriffs, sometimes flashing more.
He remembered his early playing days, when he'd picked up one, sometimes even two of them, and indulged in long, lost nights of Cutty and sex. He'd done things the rest of the male population had only dreamed about, but as the novelty had worn off, he'd begun to find something pathetic about those encounters. By the time he'd reached thirty, he'd replaced the football groupies with women who had more going for them than a hot body, and sex had once again been fun. Then he'd met Valerie and begun his current downward spiral. But that spiral was about to shift direction now that Sharon Anderson was in his life.
On Tuesday afternoon he'd managed to stop by the nursery school again to watch her with the kids and take her out for coffee after they'd left. She had some stains on her clothes that made him want to hug her: grape juice, paste, a streak of playground dirt. She was quiet and sweet, exactly what he wanted in a woman, which made his physical response to Phoebe Somerville even more aggravating. That female belonged in leather boots and a garter belt, as far away as possible from a bunch of innocent children.
Ronald propped his foot up on the bench and stared out at the practice field. "Phoebe keeps asking me to tell her who the best candidate for the GM job is."
Dan gave him a sharp gaze. "You've seen her?"
"We—uh—spend a lot of time together."
"Why?"
Ronald shrugged. "She trusts me."
Dan never gave anything away, and he concealed his uneasiness. Was Phoebe responsible for the changes in Ronald? "I guess I didn't realize that the two of you were friends."
"Not exactly friends." Ronald took a drag on his cigarette. "Women are funny about me. I guess Phoebe's no exception."
"What do you mean funny?"
"It's the Cruise thing. Most men don't notice, but women think I look like Tom Cruise."
Dan gave a snort of disgust. First Bobby Tom decided he looked like a movie star and now Ronald. But then, as he studied Ron more closely, he couldn't deny there was a vague resemblance.
"Yeah, I guess you do at that. I never noticed."
"It makes women feel as if they can trust me. Among other things." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "It plays hell with your love life, I'll tell you that."
Dan's instincts for danger were as well developed as a battle-hardened soldier's, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
"How do you mean?" he said carefully.
"Women can be quite demanding."
"I suppose I never thought of you as that much of a hound with the ladies."
"I do all right." He threw down his cigarette and ground it out beneath his shoe. "I've got to go. Good luck with Phoebe. She's a real wildcat, and you're going to have your work cut out for you."
Dan had heard enough. Lashing out his arm, he caught Ronald by the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. "Cut out the cute stuff. What the hell's going on?"
