Susan Phillips - It Had To Be You

Dan nodded back. "Bobby Tom."

The wide receiver turned to Tully. "Hey, Coach, what d'ya think? That redhead over there told me all her girlfriends think I'm the best-looking wide-out in the league. What about you? Do you think my profile's better than Tom Waddle's?"

Tully contemplated the wide receiver's profile while he gave the question serious consideration. "I don't know, Bobby Tom. Waddle's nose is straighter than yours."

Bobby Tom tended to get belligerent when anyone challenged his good looks, and tonight was no exception. "Is that so? For your information she said I look like that movie star-what's his name? Christian Slater." Bobby Tom frowned. "Either of you know who Christian Slater is?"

Neither of them did.

For a moment Bobby Tom looked befuddled. Then he snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and grinned. "Well, I'll tell you one thing about him. He's a damned fine looking sonavabitch."

They all laughed. Dan liked Bobby Tom off the field, but he liked him even better on. One of the best wide receivers Dan had seen in years, he had guts, brains, and hands so soft you couldn't even hear the ball hit when he caught it. What he didn't have was his new contract signed, and that fact was driving Dan to contemplate murdering a certain blond bimbo.

Bert had died just as he'd been finishing the complex negotiations with Bobby Tom's shark of an agent. Now there was no one in the Stars' organization with authorization to sign the final contract except Phoebe Somerville, whose answering service reported that she was on vacation and couldn't be reached.

Bobby Tom wasn't Dan's only unsigned player, either. He had an offensive tackle named Darnell Pruitt, who was so good he was scary, and a young safety who had led the Stars in forced fumbles last season. None of them would be traveling to the Meadowlands that weekend for the Stars' fourth preseason game against the Jets. And if something didn't happen soon, none of them would be in uniform for the season opener in two weeks.

Thanks to the disappearing bimbo, Dan Calebow was in danger of losing three of the most promising players in the league. He understood the way the NFL worked, and it didn't take a crystal ball to know there were a dozen team owners waiting in the wings with open checkbooks and saliva dripping from their jaws just hoping those three players were going to lose patience with a team that was rapidly becoming a joke.

At an early age the sting of his daddy's belt had taught Dan that winning was what counted in life. He'd always been an aggressive competitor, mowing down anyone who got in his way, and right then he made a promise to himself. If he ever got his hands on a certain brainless bimbo, he'd teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget.

"Hi, Coach, I'm Melanie."

Bobby Tom's gaze roamed over the shapely young beauty who had eyes only for Dan. The young wide receiver shook his head. "Damn, Coach. You got more women than I do."

"I've got a head start on you, Bobby Tom. You'll catch up." He put his arm around the girl. "Now what did you say your name was again, honey?"

Dan heard the siren just as he reached the point on the Eisenhower Expressway where the East West Tollway split off to the left. He had abandoned Melanie at the reception an hour ago, and as he glanced in the rearview mirror he was glad his heavy drinking days were behind him.

He pulled his red Ferrari 512 TR over. The car was too small for him, but he put up with the lack of legroom because the Testarossa was the most beautiful driving machine in the world. Still, two hundred thousand dollars was an obscene amount of money to pay for a car when people were sleeping on the streets, and after he bought it, he'd written a matching check to one of his favorite charities. Most years he gave away more money than he spent, which he figured was only right considering how much he was worth.

By the time the trooper approached the driver's side of the car, Dan had his window lowered. The cop had already taken in the Testarossa's distinctive "ICE 11" vanity plates.

He braced his elbow on the hood of the car and leaned down. "Evening, Coach."

Dan nodded.

"I guess you're in a hurry."

"What d'you get me at?"

"You were doing eighty-seven when you passed Mannheim."

Dan grinned and slapped the steering wheel. "Damn, I love this car. I was holding it down, too. There are a lot of fools on the road tonight."

"You can say that again." The cop took a few moments to admire the car before he returned his attention to Dan. "How do you think you'll do against the Jets this weekend?"

"We'll give it our best."

"Bobby Tom signed yet?"

"Afraid not."

"That's too bad." He took his arm away. "Well, good luck, anyway. And ease up on the gas pedal, will you, Coach? We got some boys on duty tonight who are still nursing a grudge over that sneak you called on fourth and one when you lost to the Browns last year."

"Thanks for the warning."

It was almost one in the morning when Dan pulled back onto the expressway, and traffic was fairly light. He had already removed the jacket of his tuxedo, and as he shot into the left lane, he tugged off his bow tie and unfastened his shirt collar.

Despite a blemished record with the law, he liked cops. They'd stood by him ever since he was a twelve-year-old punk caught stealing beer. And the cops in Tuscaloosa had done a lot more to set him straight when he was playing for the Tide than his old man. One of them had even managed to convince him of the value of a college education one night after the cops had broken up a brawl between Dan and some upperclassmen from Auburn at a bar called Wooden Dick's.

"You got brains, boy. When you gonna start usin' them?"

The cop had talked to him most of the night and made him begin to think about his long-term future. Football was Dan's ticket out of the poverty he had grown up in, but the cop made him realize that he wouldn't always be able to play.

Over the next few semesters, he had gradually replaced his phys ed and industrial arts classes with courses in business, math, and finance. By his junior year he was doing well with a demanding academic schedule, despite too much late-night carousing. His greatest satisfaction at 'Bama was realizing he had a brain and not just athletic talent.

He exited at Cermak Road into the affluent sprawl of Oak Brook and wound through the side streets until he saw the convenience store on his right. He pulled into the lot, turned off the ignition, and got out of the small, sleek car.

There were five people inside the convenience store, but only two of them women. One was a dyed redhead and he dismissed her right away. The other looked too young to be in a 7-Eleven so late at night. She was standing by the Hostess display chewing a wad of bubble gum and contemplating the Ho Hos. Her bangs were teased, but the rest of her hair was pulled back from her face and fastened at the crown of her head with a silver clip. Even though the evening was warm and muggy, she had both hands buried in the pockets of a high school jacket with "Varsity Cheerleader" written in script over her left breast.

She saw him approaching, and her jaw stalled in mid-chew. A short, skintight Spandex skirt peeked out several inches from beneath the school jacket. Her legs were thin and bare, her feet shoved into a pair of black flats. As he stopped in front of her, he noticed she was wearing too much makeup the way young girls sometimes did.

"I know who you are," she said.

"Do you now?"

"Uh-huh." She took three staccato chews-nervous, but not giggly. "You're the Stars' football coach. Dan-uh-Mr. Calebow."

"That's right."

"I'm Tiffany."

"Is that so."

"I've seen you on television lots of times."

"How old are you, darlin'?"