Lost in thought, she dressed automatically in the outfit Simone had made for her in a rush last week. After repacking her suitcase for the late-night return to O’Hare following the game, she met Ron in the lobby.

He smiled as he took in her clothing. “Perfect.”

She looked doubtfully at her reflection in the mirrored tile on the lobby wall. “I knew this was no time to stage a retreat, but it’s not exactly me.”

She was wearing her own variation of a Stars’ uniform: sky blue satin knickers with a sparkly gold stripe down the outside of each thigh. A pair of blue and gold socks were tucked into soft leather sneakers studded with rhinestones. Since the early October evenings were bound to be a bit chilly, Simone had put together a puffy blue and gold satin bomber jacket with an enormous sparkly star on the back and smaller ones scattered over the front. She wore her hair in curls with a wide ribbon threaded through and tied into a floppy blue bow on top of her head, just right of center.

“It’s exactly you,” Ron said. “The cameramen are going to go crazy.”

They said little more to each other as they drove to the Meadowlands and Giants Stadium. Before it had been reclaimed, the Jersey Meadowlands had been a dumping ground for rusty automobiles and men who ran afoul of the mob. Rumors persisted that the stadium had been built on the bridge of Jimmy Hoffa’s nose.

When they reached the owners’ entrance forty-five minutes before kickoff, Ron volunteered to escort her up to the skybox before he made his regular pregame visit to the locker room, but she had already made up her mind what she needed to do and she shook her head.

“I’m going with you.”

“To the locker room?”

She gave an abrupt nod. “To the locker room.”

Ron regarded her uncertainly but made no comment as he led the way through the subterranean depths of the stadium. They entered a locker room that was ominously quiet. With the exception of their helmets, the players were fully dressed, and she felt as if she had stumbled into a land populated by titans. On the field, they were enormous, but trapped indoors wearing full battle gear, their size was truly awesome.

Some of them stood while others hunched on wooden benches with their knees splayed and hands dangling loosely from bent wrists. Bobby Tom and Jim Biederot sat on a long table at the side, their backs resting against the wall. All of their faces were grim as they listened to Dan speak.

“. . . we’re playing our own game out there tonight. We’re not going to win with field goals. We’ve got to win in the red zone. We’ve got to win in short-yardage situations. . . .”