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Dan gave him a long, hard glare and stalked from the room.
Phoebe pressed her hand to her mouth. Ron gave her arm a gentle squeeze.
"The press conference will take place on the practice field at one o'clock. I'll come to your office to get you."
"Ron, I really don't—"
"Excuse me, Phoebe, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick."
Releasing her arm, he dashed from the room, while she stared after him in dismay.
Dan's feet slammed the stair treads as he stormed down to the first floor. When he hit the landing, he drew back his foot and kicked the metal door open. Once he was outside, the bright Indian summer day did nothing to soothe his rage.
As he stalked toward his car, he plotted what he would do next. He was going to snap that little weasel's neck. Kick his weasel ass inside out. Any kind of suspension was in direct violation of his contract, and his lawyers were going to make mincemeat out of Phoebe and her GM. He didn't have to take shit like that. He was going to… He was going to…
He was going to stop acting like an ass.
He braced one hand on the roof of his car and took a deep, unsteady breath. He was embarrassed and furious, not at Phoebe but at himself. How could he have insulted her like that? He'd never in his life treated a woman so badly, not even Valerie. And Phoebe hadn't deserved it. She made him crazy, but she didn't have a mean bone in her body. She was funny and sexy and sweet in her own particular way.
He hated losing control like this, but when he'd heard that smug reporter telling the world that Phoebe had been in his hotel room, he'd been so full of rage at the violation of their privacy that he'd wanted to kick in the television screen. He knew enough about the press to realize that Phoebe would end up taking the heat for something that had been his fault. If only he'd talked to her about it instead of insulting her.
He knew he would have handled the whole thing a lot better if it hadn't been for those photographs. The idea of strangers looking at her body infuriated him. His reaction was completely illogical, considering the fact that her body had been on display in most of the major museums of the world, but he couldn't help it. Besides, abstract paintings were different from brightly lit photographs. The photographs he'd seen in Beau Monde were works of art, but the world was filled with millions of horny assholes who weren't going to know that. Thinking about the way they would be drooling over those pages had made his temper snap.
His damned temper. When was he going to grow up and get it under control? It didn't take a degree in psychology to understand why he had such a hard time with it. Even when he was a little kid—four or five years old—his old man had beaten him up if he cried or complained because he was hurt or scared.
He could still hear his old man's drunken abuse. Fetch my belt so I can give you something real to cry about, little girly.
As he grew up, he'd discovered that the one emotion he could safely express around his old man was anger, whether on the football field or with his fists. Hell of a thing. A man thirty-seven years old still behaving like a playground bully. Except this time the bully had gotten what was coming to him. This time the bully had been cut down to size by the short little kid who couldn't even make the team.
Once again the anger came back to him, but now he was honest enough to admit it was a camouflage for shame. Shame that Ronald was the one who'd defended Phoebe. Shame that Ronald had been defending her against him.
If he hadn't been so mad at himself, he might have
been able to enjoy the fact that Ronald McDermitt had finally shown some gumption. If he hadn't been so mad at himself, he might have believed there was actually some hope for the team after all.
Chapter 14
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Ron cleared his throat. "Ms. Somerville posed for the Beau Monde photographs before she inherited the Stars. She certainly had no intention of embarrassing either the team or the NFL."
"Is it true that the commissioner has privately warned her about her behavior?" a female reporter asked.
"That is not true," Ron replied. "She hasn't spoken with the commissioner."
Only because she hadn't returned his phone calls, Phoebe thought unhappily as she sat in silence between Ron and Wally Hampton, the Stars' public relations director. The press conference was going even worse than she had anticipated. Not only had the local media shown up, but the national as well, hot on the trail of a terrific human interest story.
So many reporters had wanted to take part in the press conference that they had been forced to use the empty practice field. She, Ron, and Wally were seated near the fifty yard line behind a small table draped with a blue cloth bearing the Stars' logo. Some of the press members stood, while others had taken seats on wooden benches that had been set up for them.
At first all the questions had been centered around Bert's will, but it hadn't taken them long to move on. So far, they had questioned Ron's management skills, Dan's coaching, and Phoebe's morals. Ron and Wally Hampton were answering all of the questions, even those addressed directly to her.
An overweight male reporter with bad skin and a scraggly beard stood. Wally Hampton whispered to her that he represented a sleazy tabloid. "Phoebe, are you going to do any more nudie shots?"
Wally interceded. "Ms. Somerville is much too busy with the Stars for any other outside activities."
The man scratched his chin beneath his beard. "This isn't the first time you've taken off your clothes for the public, is it?"
"Ms. Somerville's work for the great artist Arturo Flores is well-known," Ron said stiffly.
