Swallowing hard, she gazed up at him innocently. "Oh, my. The big bad wolf just blew my door down. What did I do now?"

"You win."

"Goody. What's the prize?"

"Ronald." He grit his teeth. "I've decided I won't stand in your way if you want to hire him back."

"That's wonderful."

"Not from my viewpoint."

"Ron isn't quite the incompetent you seem to think he is."

"He's a weenie."

"Well, you're a hot dog, so the two of you should get along just fine."

He scowled, and then he let his eyes roam all over her with an insolence he had never before displayed. "Ronald sure figured out how to get what he wanted from you. But maybe there's something you should know. Smart businesswomen don't sleep with the men who work for them."

Even though she hadn't done anything wrong, the jab hurt, and she had to force herself to give him a silky smile. "Jealous I chose him instead of you?"

"Nope. I'm just afraid you'll move on to my players next."

She clenched her fists, but before she could respond he had stalked from her office.

Ray Hardesty stood in the shadows of the pines outside the cyclone fence and watched Dan Calebow stride back onto the practice field. Ray had to be at work soon, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he coughed and lit another cigarette, disturbing the butts already on the ground as he shifted his feet. Some of them were fresh, but others had disintegrated in last week's thunderstorms, leaving behind only the swollen, yellowed filters.

Every day he told himself he wasn't going to come here again, but he came back all the same. And every day when his wife asked him where he was going, he said True Value. He never came home with any hardware, but she kept on asking. It had gotten so he could barely stand the sight of her.

Ray rubbed the back of his hand over his stubbly jaw and wasn't surprised when he felt nothing. The morning the police had come to the house to notify him that Ray Junior had died in a car crash, he'd stopped being able to tell the difference between hot and cold. His wife said it was temporary, but Ray knew it wasn't, the same way he knew he'd never be able to watch his son play football for the Stars again. Ever since that morning, his senses had been confused. He'd watch television for hours only to realize he'd never turned up the volume. He'd pour salt into his coffee instead of sugar and not notice the taste until his mug was nearly empty.

Nothing was right any more. He'd been a big shot when Ray Junior was playing for the Stars. The guys he worked with, his neighbors, the boys at the bar, everybody had treated him with respect. Now they looked at him with pity. Now he was nothing, and it was all Calebow's fault. If Ray Junior hadn't been so upset about getting cut by the Stars, he wouldn't have driven through that guardrail. Because of Calebow, Ray Senior couldn't hold his head up any longer.

For months Ray Junior had been telling him how Calebow had it in for him, accusing him of drinking too much and being some kind of goddamn druggie just because he took a few steroids like everybody else in the NFL. Maybe Ray Junior had been a little wild, but that's what had made him a great player. He sure as hell hadn't been any goddamn druggie. Hale Brewster, the Stars' former coach, had never complained. It was only when Brewster had been fired and Calebow had taken over that the trouble started.

Everybody had always commented on how much he and his son looked alike. Ray Junior'd also had a misshapen, prizefighter's face, with a big nose, small eyes, and bushy brows. But his son hadn't lived long enough to get thick around the waist, and there hadn't been any gray in his hair when they'd buried him.

Ray Senior's life had been filled with disappointments. He thought about how he wanted to be a cop, but when he'd applied, it seemed like they wouldn't take anybody but niggers. He'd wanted to marry a beautiful woman, but he'd ended up with Ellen instead. At first even Ray Junior had been a disappointment. But his old man had toughened him up, and by the kid's senior year in high school, Ray had felt like a king as he sat in the stands and watched his boy play ball.

Now he was a nobody again.

He began to cough and it took him almost a minute to get the spasms under control. The doctors had told him a year ago to stop smoking because of his bad heart and the trouble with his lungs. They hadn't come right out and told him he was dying, but he knew it anyway, and he didn't much care anymore. All he cared about was getting even with Dan Calebow.

Ray Senior relished every Stars' loss because it proved the team wasn't worth shit without his kid. He had made up his mind that he was going to stay alive until the day everybody knew what a mistake that bastard had made by cutting Ray Junior. He was going to stay alive until the day Calebow had to eat the dirt of what he had done.

The smell of scotch and expensive cigars enveloped Phoebe as she entered the owner's skybox the following Sunday. She was doing what she had sworn she wouldn't-attend a football game-but Ron had convinced her that the owner of the Stars couldn't miss the opening game of the regular season.

The hexagonal Midwest Sports Dome had actually been constructed in an abandoned gravel quarry that sat at the center of a hundred acres of land just north of the Tollway. When the Stars weren't playing, the distinctive glass and steel dome was home to everything from religious crusades to tractor pulls. It had banquet facilities, an elegant restaurant, and seats for eighty-five thousand people.

"This is an expensive piece of real estate," Phoebe murmured to Ron as she took in the owner's sky box with its two television sets and front wall of windows looking down on the field. She had learned that skyboxes in the Midwest Sports Dome were leased for eighty thousand dollars a year.

"Skyboxes are one of the few profit items we have in that miserable stadium contract Bert signed," Ron said as he closed the door behind them. "This is actually two units turned into one."

She gazed through the cigar smoke at the luxurious gold and blue decor: thick pile carpeting, comfortable lounge chairs, a well-stocked mahogany bar. There were nine or ten men present, either cronies of her father's or owners of the fifteen percent of the Stars that Bert had sold several years ago when he'd needed to raise money.

"Ron, do you notice anything out of place here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Me. I'm the only woman. Don't any of these men have wives?"

"Bert didn't allow women in the owner's box during games." Mischievous lights twinkled in his eyes. "Too much chatter."

"You're kidding."

"The wives have box seats outside. It's not an unknown practice in the NFL."

"The boys' club."

"Exactly."

An overweight man she vaguely remembered having met at her father's funeral came toward her, his eyes bulging slightly as he stared at her. She was wearing what Simone called her "carwash" dress because the clingy pink sheath was slit into wide ribbons from a point well above her knee to the mid-calf hem. With every step she took, her legs played peek-a-boo with the hot pink ribbons, while the sleeveless scoop-necked bodice clung to her breasts. The man held a cut glass tumbler filled to the brim with liquor, and his effusive greeting made her suspect it wasn't his first.

"I hope you're going to bring us good luck, little lady."

He ogled her breasts. "We had a rough season last year, and a few of us aren't sure Calebow's the right man for the job. He was a great quarterback, but that doesn't mean he can coach. Why don't you use that pretty face of yours to get him to open up the offense more? With a receiver like Bobby Tom, you've got to throw deep. And he needs to start Bryzski instead of Reynolds. You tell him that, hear?"

The man was insufferable, and she lowered her voice until it was husky. "I'll whisper it right across his pillow this very night."

Ronald quickly drew her away from the startled man before she could do any more damage and introduced her to the others. Most of them had suggestions for adjustments they wanted Dan to make in his starting lineup and plays they wanted him to add. She wondered if all men secretly aspired to be football coaches.

She flirted with them until she could ease away, and then walked over to the windows to gaze down into the stadium. The kickoff was less than ten minutes away, and there were far too many empty seats, despite the fact that the Stars were playing their opening game against the popular Denver Broncos. No wonder the team was having so many financial problems. If something didn't change soon, those layoffs Dan had mentioned were going to become a reality.

The men in the skybox watched her legs while she watched a television commentator explain why the Broncos were going to beat the Stars. Ron appeared at her side. He shifted nervously from one foot to another, and she remembered that he'd seemed jumpy ever since he'd picked her up. "Is something wrong?"

"Would you mind very much coming with me?"

"Of course not." She picked up her small purse and followed him out of the skybox into the hallway. "Has something happened I should know about?"

"Not exactly. It's just…" He steered her toward one of the private elevators and pushed the button, "Phoebe, this is funny really." The doors slid open, and he drew her inside. "You've probably heard that athletes are notoriously superstitious. Some of them insist on wearing the same pair of socks all season or putting on their equipment in exactly the same order. A lot of them have developed elaborate pregame rituals over the years-which doors they use, how they approach the stadium. They tuck good luck charms in their uniforms. Silly stuff, really, but it gives them confidence, so there's no harm."

She regarded him suspiciously as the elevator began its descent. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Not you, exactly. Well, Bert, really. And certain members of the team." He glanced nervously at his watch. "It involves the Bears, too. And Mike McCaskey."

McCaskey was the grandson of George Halas, the legendary founder of the Chicago Bears. He was also the Bears' controversial president and CEO. But, unlike herself, McCaskey knew something about running a football team, so Phoebe didn't see the connection.

The doors slid open. As she and Ron stepped out, she saw sunlight, despite the fact that she knew they were beneath the stadium. She realized they were in a hallway that ended in a large tunnel leading to the field. Ron turned her toward it.

"Ron, you're starting to make me very nervous."

He withdrew a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his forehead. "Mike McCaskey spends the first quarter of every Bears' game standing on the field by the bench. He doesn't interfere with the game, but he's always there, and it's become a ritual." He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. "Bert didn't like the fact that McCaskey was on the field while he was up in the Stars' skybox, so a few years back he started doing the same thing, and it's-uh-become part of the routine. The players have gotten superstitious about it."

A distinct uneasiness was creeping through her. "Ron-"

"You have to stand on the field with the team for the first quarter," he said in a rush.

"I can't do that! I don't even want to be in the skybox, let alone out on the field!"

"You have to. The men expect it. Jim Biederot is your starting quarterback, and he's one of the most superstitious athletes I've ever met. Quarterbacks are like tenors; they're easily upset. And Bobby Tom was quite vocal about it before the game. He doesn't want his karma disrupted."

"I don't care about his karma!"

"Then how about your $8 million?"

"I'm not going out there."

"If you don't, you're ducking your responsibilities and you're not the person I thought you were."

This last came out in a rush, and it gave her pause. But the idea of standing on the field filled her with a fear she didn't want to face. She searched her mind for a plausible excuse other than panic.

"My clothes aren't right."

His eyes shone with admiration as he studied her. "You look beautiful."

Her knee and a good portion of her thigh poked through the hot pink ribbons as she lifted one foot to show Ron a strappy sandal with a three-inch heel. "Mike McCaskey wouldn't go on the field dressed like this! Besides, I'll sink."

"It's Astroturf; Phoebe, you're grasping at straws. Frankly, I expect better of you."

"Some part of you is actually enjoying this, isn't it?"

"I must admit that when I saw you in that dress, it occurred to me that your appearance might spark ticket sales. Perhaps you could wave to the crowd."