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"Not much, I'll bet," she muttered as their drinks arrived.
Bobby Tom lifted his frosty mug. "Here's to whippin' some Saber butt."
"To butt whipping." She touched her glass to his, then licked a small space in the salty rim and took a sip of her margarita.
"Miz Somerville—"
"Phoebe's fine." She took another sip. Later, she would regret the calories, but not now.
"I guess when it's just the two of us first names are okay, but since you're the owner and all, I won't do it when we're in public."
"After those pictures in the newspaper, I don't think I have to worry too much about maintaining respectability."
"Weren't they great! Even got my best side." His grin faded. "You weren't serious when you said you wouldn't be on the sidelines tomorrow, were you?"
"I'm not sure it's a good idea. Not unless we can come up with a new good luck ritual."
"Oh, no. We can't do that. Even though we lost, I had one of the best games of my career against the Broncos last week. I've been playing football for a lot of years, and when something's working for me, I stick with it. See, as soon as I start making changes, then I'm thinking about the change instead of how the zone is lined up and whether or not I can get open. You understand what I'm saying?"
"Bobby Tom, I'm really not crazy about having photos in all the Monday morning newspapers of the two of us kissing."
"I'm surprised I have to remind you about this, Phoebe, but we're playing the Sabers tomorrow, and beating them is a lot more important than some newspaper pictures. They won the Super Bowl last year. The whole country thinks we're flushing this season down the toilet. We have to prove to them that we've got what it takes to be champions."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you have to be champions? When you think about it, what's the point? It's not like you're finding a cure for cancer."
"You're right," he said earnestly. "It's not like that. It's bigger. See, you've got good and you've got evil. That's what it is. That's how important it is."
"I'm having some trouble following you, Bobby Tom."
He lifted his arm for the waitress and jabbed two fingers toward their drinks for refills. That's when she realized that she'd nearly drained hers. She had no head for alcohol, and she knew she should refuse another, but Bobby Tom was good company, and she was enjoying herself. Besides, he was paying.
"The way I figure it is this," he went on. "Mankind is aggressive by nature, you agree with that?"
"Mankind maybe, but not necessarily womankind."
Bobby Tom obviously had no interest in sexual politics because he ignored her comment. "Football lets out man's natural aggression. If it weren't for the NFL, we'd probably have gone to war with Russia half a dozen times in the last forty years. See, that's the way Americans are. The minute we get crossed, we're
natural shitkickers. Pardon my language, Phoebe, but everybody knows kickin' ass is part of our national conscience. Football gives us a—whadya-call? A safe outlet."
He was actually making a convoluted sort of sense, which was when she knew the first margarita had gone to hear head. She picked up the second one, and licked another spot in the rim.
He clasped her arm and gave her a pleading look. "So, are you gonna be there for me or not tomorrow, 'cause I'll tell you God's truth—you're a fine woman, and I know you don't want a loss to the Sabers on your conscience."
"I'll be there," she sighed.
"I knew I could count on you." He gave her an engaging smile. "I like you, Phoebe. A lot. If we weren't business associates, I could really go for you."
He was so boyish and darling, she smiled right back at him. "Isn't life a bitch?"
"You said it."
Even without a margarita glow, Bobby Tom Denton was easy to be with. They talked about Mexican food, whether sports teams should be named after Native Americans, and Bobby Tom's resemblance to Christian Slater. She took more time with her second margarita, but even so, she was definitely feeling a buzz when he leaned over and brushed her mouth with his.
It was a light, friendly kiss. Respectful. A mark of comradeship and well-being. The kiss a twenty-five-year-old man gives to a thirty-three-year-old woman he'd like to go to bed with, but knows he won't, and doesn't want to spoil the friendship, but still wishes it could be more than a friendship.
