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Ron knew her well enough to regard her warily. "What did you say?"
"I—uh—" She looked past him out the window. "Never mind."
"Phoebe…"
She bowed to the inevitable with a sigh. "I told him I had to get off the phone because Playboy was on the other line."
Ron winced, but Dan laughed.
"Don't encourage her." Ron was clearly annoyed. "You know that if the Stars were winning, we wouldn't be getting all this flak."
"I was suspended last week! It's real hard to win a football game when you're not coaching the team."
"That's one of the reasons I wanted to talk to both of you." Ron toyed with his coffee mug. "As far as I'm concerned, what's past is past. We can't do anything about the photographs, and as for Phoebe's dress on the sidelines—Well, I believe the commissioner's wrong."
"I can just imagine how thrilled he was with that Stars' tattoo she had on her shoulder blade yesterday. It showed up real nice on TV."
"It's removable," she said. "And I was simply displaying my team spirit."
"You were displaying a lot more than team spirit."
"She's filling up some of the empty seats," Ron said. "Many of them with women, by the way." He looked at Dan. "Your suspension was my decision and I take full responsibility for yesterday's loss. I'm also giving you both a warning. I don't know what's going on between the two of you, but I don't want to get caught in the cross fire again. Is that understood?"
"Understood," Dan said brusquely.
"There's nothing going on," Phoebe said. Dan's steady gaze was making her uncomfortable. Once again she reminded herself that—temporarily, at least—these two worked for her. She stood. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
The corner of Dan's mouth kicked up. "Say howdy to your buddies over at Playboy for me."
She repressed a smile as she left the room and headed for her office, where she spent the rest of the day reading reports and studying the spreadsheets on her computer screen that detailed the team's complex finances. As she jotted figures on the steno pad she kept next to the keyboard, she admitted to herself that it felt good to use her brain again.
Their next game was being played at Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands for ABC's "Monday Night Football." Since no team wanted to lose in front of such a sizable television audience, Monday night games were considered to be among the most important of the season. As the week advanced the already tense atmosphere at the Stars Complex grew so explosive that fights began to break out among the players, while the staff snapped at each other, and Dan snapped at everyone. The team's recent bad publicity had made it impossible for Phoebe to continue hiding from the media, and her dread of the upcoming game was compounded when she reluctantly agreed to ABC's request for a halftime interview.
The players were tightly strung, the chartered plane virtually silent as it left O'Hare on Sunday afternoon for Newark. "It's like a morgue back there," Phoebe said to Ron as the flight attendants handed them the drinks they had requested: beer for Ron, tomato juice for her. "I don't think it's good for the players to be so tense."
"Dan's worked them as hard as I've ever seen this week, and they know what's at stake. We have everything riding on this game."
She had done more than stare at spreadsheets this week; she had also read a year's worth of back issues of several well-regarded sports magazines, and she nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. "I still don't think they should be so uptight. Maybe that's why they're fumbling the ball so much."
"The only thing that will make them relax is finally having a win behind them."
"If they don't loosen up a little, that might not happen."
"I sincerely hope you're wrong."
He turned his attention back to Forbes. She hesitated for only a moment before she leaned down and surreptitiously lifted the latch on the small dog carrier she had stowed beneath her legs.
Seconds later, the interior of the plane was filled with shrill yips as Pooh tore down the center aisle.
In the row of seats ahead of her, Dan's head shot up, and he whirled around to face her. "Damn it, Phoebe! You brought that dog with you!"
"Oops." Her lips formed a small, pink oval as she stood and squeezed past Ron. "Excuse me. I seem to have misplaced my pooch."
Ignoring Dan, she made her way into the coach section of the plane, where she immediately heard the rumble of male laughter. As she had hoped, the players welcomed the distraction Pooh was providing. The poodle scooted between their feet, scrambled over their carryons, and licked any uncovered human part she could reach.
Bobby Tom reached down to snare her, but she dodged and crouched between Webster Greer's feet. Phoebe couldn't help but laugh at the sight of Pooh's fluffy little head with its perky periwinkle bow perched on top of Webster's size fourteen sneakers. She gazed warily up the aisle at her mistress and tried to figure out how much trouble she'd gotten herself into.
"I don't think she wants you to catch her," Webster observed.
