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The ball arced into the air, and when the massive bodies of the players began to collide, she managed to avoid slapping her hands over her eyes. Although it was still terrifying to be near so much mayhem, she realized as the quarter progressed that she wasn't quite as panicked as she had been the week before. Ron had been teaching her the rudiments of the game, and more than once, she found herself caught up in the action.
Later, in the skybox, she had the satisfaction of watching Dan get ejected in the fourth quarter after insulting one of the refs. Inspired by her good luck kiss, Bobby Tom had caught five passes for 118 yards, but it wasn't enough to make up for his teammates' fumbles, especially against a powerhouse like the Sabers. With six turnovers, the Sabers beat the Stars by eighteen points.
She and Ron returned with the team on the charter flight back to O'Hare. She had changed from her python jeans into comfortable slacks and a red cotton sweater that hung to mid-thigh. As she approached Dan, who was sitting in the front row of first class and scowling over next week's game plan with Gary Hewitt, the offensive coordinator, she wished she could slip past him before he noticed her. Since that wasn't possible, she stopped momentarily beside his seat, arched her eyebrows, and flipped the pack of Wrigley's into his lap.
"You really should learn to control your temper, Coach."
He gave her a glare that could have scorched concrete. She quickly moved on.
After the plane took off, she left her seat in first class next to Ron and walked into the cabin to speak with the players. She was stunned to see how banged up they were. The team physician was giving one of the veterans a shot in the knee, while the trainer worked with another. Many of the men sported ice packs.
They seemed to appreciate the fact that she was willing to converse with them after an embarrassing loss. She noticed that there was a definite pecking order to the way in which they were seated. The coaches, GM, and important press occupied first class, while Stars staff members and the camera crew sat in the front of the coach section. The rookies occupied the next few rows, and the veterans took up the back of the plane. Later, when she asked Ron why the veterans chose the rear of the plane, he told her they liked to get as far away from the coaches as possible.
It was after one in the morning when they landed at O'Hare, and she was exhausted. Ron was taking her home since she hadn't driven to the airport. As she slid into the deep front seat of his Lincoln Town Car, she heard a brisk set of footsteps approaching.
"We need to talk, Phoebe. Let me drive you home."
She looked up to see Dan standing next to the car, his hand resting on the door as he leaned down to peer inside. He was wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, and he looked more like a stern-faced high school principal who was about to reach for his paddle than one of the gridiron's legendary hell-raisers.
She fumbled with her seat belt buckle as she snapped it together. "We can talk tomorrow. I'm going with Ron."
Ron, who was standing on the driver's side, had just finished placing their carry-on bags in the rear seat. He looked up as Dan came around the front of the car.
"I have some business I need to discuss with Phoebe, Ronald. I'll drive her home. We can trade cars at work tomorrow." He tossed over a set of keys and, ignoring her exclamation of protest, slid behind the wheel. While Dan adjusted the seat to accommodate his taller framer, Ron stared down at the keys in his hand.
"You're letting me drive your Ferrari?"
"Don't put any drool marks on the leather."
Ron snatched his carry-on bag from the back and handed over his own keys, so pleased at the prospect of driving "ICE 11" that he dashed off without telling Phoebe good-bye.
She sat in stony silence as Dan pulled out of the parking lot. Within minutes, they were heading south on the Tri State. In the gaudy lights of billboards advertising radio stations and beer, she could see that he was doing a slow burn, as if he were the wronged party instead of her. She made up her mind that she wasn't going to let him realize how much he'd hurt her.
"I suppose you know you disgraced yourself at the game today by showing up in that snake charmer outfit."
"I disgraced myself? Unless my memory's faulty, you were the one who got evicted."
"I got ejected, not evicted. That was a football game, not a damn landlords' convention." He glanced over at her. "What were you trying to prove, anyway? Don't you know that when you wear clothes like that, you might as well have a For Sale sign plastered on your chest."
"Of course I know it," she cooed. "Why do you think I do it?"
His hands tightened on the wheel. "You're really pushing me, aren't you?"
"My clothing isn't any of your concern."
"It is when it reflects on the team."
"Don't you think those infantile temper tantrums you throw on the sidelines reflect on the team?"
"That's different. It's part of the game."
She hoped her refusal to respond told him exactly what she thought of his logic.
They drove for several miles in silence. Phoebe's misery settled in deeper. She was so tired of playing a part all the time, but she didn't know any other way to behave. Maybe if they'd met under different circumstances, they would have had a chance.
Dan's belligerence had faded when he finally spoke again. "Look, Phoebe. I feel bad about last night, and I want to apologize. I liked being with you and all, and I didn't mean to be so abrupt. It was just gettin' kind of late…" His apology trailed lamely into silence.
She could feel her throat closing, and she fought against it. Pulling the fragments of her willpower together, she spoke with the bored lockjaw drawl of a South Hampton socialite. "Really, Dan, if I'd known you would react in such an immature fashion, I would never have gone to bed with you."
