Phoebe ran into Bobby Tom Denton in the hotel lobby at eight-thirty on Saturday evening. Although she had just arrived in Portland on a commercial flight from O'Hare, the Stars had been there since noon because NFL rules stated that visiting teams had to be in the city in which they were playing twenty-four hours before kick-off. She knew from an earlier glance at the schedule that the players had been in a meeting until 8:00 p.m. and were now free until their eleven o'clock curfew.
'Hey there, Miz Somerville.' Her $8-million man gave her a grin that was nearly as wide as the black Stetson on his head. His stylishly frayed and faded jeans molded to his runner's legs, and his snakeskin cowboy boots had been perfectly broken in so that they were neither too new nor too run-down. Viktor would have been impressed.
Bobby Tom said, 'I was worried you might not be here.'
'I told you I'd come.'
He pushed the brim of his hat back with his thumb. 'You're going to be on the sidelines during the first quarter tomorrow, aren't you?'
She nibbled the corner of her lip. 'Actually, Bobby Tom, I'm having some second thoughts.'
'Hold on, now. I can see you and me need to have a serious conversation.' One of his nimble, receiver's hands clasped her arm and gently steered her toward the bar. She could have protested, but she wasn't looking forward to an evening in a strange hotel room without even Pooh to keep her company.
The hotel bar was quiet and dark, and they settled in a small banquette in the corner, where Bobby Tom ordered a beer. 'You look like the white wine type,' he said. 'How 'bout one of those fancy chardonnays.'
Phoebe would have loved a chardonnay but she wasn't sure she liked being classified as a 'white wine type,' so she requested a margarita. The waitress, who'd been gazing at Bobby Tom with hungry eyes, went off to fill their orders.
'Are you allowed to drink the night before a game?'
'We're allowed to do just about anything as long as we give the team all we've got the next day. Drinkin' and curfew are the only two things the coach isn't real strict about. We're supposed to be in our rooms by eleven, but Coach was pretty much a hell-raiser in his playing days, and he knows we all have our own ways of blowin' off steam.' Bobby Tom chuckled. 'He's sort of a legend.'
Phoebe told herself not to ask, but when it came to Dan Calebow, her curiosity seemed to have no bounds. 'What do you mean? What kind of legend?'
'Well, some of the stories about him aren't fit for female ears, but I guess everybody knows how much he hated curfews. See, the coach only needs a couple of hours sleep at night, and when he was playin', he couldn't stand the idea of being cooped up in his room at eleven o'clock. Said it wound him up too tight for the game. So what he mostly did was slide in his room for bed check and then sneak out afterward for some serious partying. The coaches found out about it, of course. They fined him, benched him; none of it did any good, because he'd still be out closing down the bars. Finally, he told them if they didn't like it, they'd could either shoot him or trade him, but he wasn't gonna change. The only bad game he had his entire first season was when they put a guard outside his room. The next day, he threw five interceptions. After that, the coaches stopped bothering him about it. 'Course he settled down a little bit when he got older.'
'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.
Phoebe understood.
Unfortunately, Dan didn't.
'Denton!' His voice shot through the quiet of the bar like a Confederate cannon over a smoldering battlefield. 'Doesn't that high-priced wristwatch of yours tell you you've got exactly three and half minutes to haul your butt up to your room or miss curfew?' He loomed over their table in his jeans and a denim shirt that was open at the
