After the plane took off, she left her seat in first class next to Ron and walked into the cabin to speak with the players. She was stunned to see how banged up they were. The team physician was giving one of the veterans a shot in the knee, while the trainer worked with another. Many of the men sported ice packs.

They seemed to appreciate the fact that she was willing to converse with them after an embarrassing loss. She noticed that there was a definite pecking order to the way in which they were seated. The coaches, GM, and important press occupied first class, while Stars staff members and the camera crew sat in the front of the coach section. The rookies occupied the next few rows, and the veterans took up the back of the plane. Later, when she asked Ron why the veterans chose the rear of the plane, he told her they liked to get as far away from the coaches as possible.

It was after one in the morning when they landed at O’Hare, and she was exhausted. Ron was taking her home since she hadn’t driven to the airport. As she slid into the deep front seat of his Lincoln Town Car, she heard a brisk set of footsteps approaching.

“We need to talk, Phoebe. Let me drive you home.”

She looked up to see Dan standing next to the car, his hand resting on the door as he leaned down to peer inside. He was wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, and he looked more like a stern-faced high school principal who was about to reach for his paddle than one of the gridiron’s legendary hell-raisers.

She fumbled with her seat belt buckle as she snapped it together. “We can talk tomorrow. I’m going with Ron.”

Ron, who was standing on the driver’s side, had just finished placing their carry-on bags in the rear seat. He looked up as Dan came around the front of the car.

“I have some business I need to discuss with Phoebe, Ronald. I’ll drive her home. We can trade cars at work tomorrow.” He tossed over a set of keys and, ignoring her exclamation of protest, slid behind the wheel. While Dan adjusted the seat to accommodate his taller framer, Ron stared down at the keys in his hand.

“You’re letting me drive your Ferrari?”

“Don’t put any drool marks on the leather.”

Ron snatched his carry-on bag from the back and handed over his own keys, so pleased at the prospect of driving “ICE 11” that he dashed off without telling Phoebe good-bye.