Her eyes glistened with tears as she set the receiver back on its cradle. She hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on her door and walked over to the window where she stared out at the lights twinkling over Biscayne Bay.

She’d learned a lot from the players in the past few months. She’d learned that if you wanted to play the game, you had to be able to take the hits. That’s what she was doing now. She was taking the hits. Dan had given her a killing blow, but she wasn’t going to let him see the damage. Tomorrow, when she heard the music to “Ain’t She Sweet?”, she would hold her head high, wave to the crowd, and cheer on her team. No one would know that she was playing hurt.

The afternoon the Stars beat the Dolphins in the AFC semifinals, Ray Hardesty sat in the den with his .38 in his lap and wished he had enough whiskey left in the house to get drunk. In one week the Stars would be meeting the Portland Sabers in the AFC Championship. He tilted the bottle to his mouth and drained the last half inch, but even the fire in his throat didn’t burn as hot as his rage. The Stars had never made it this far when Ray Junior was on the squad, and now they were going without him.

With a garbled, barely human sound, he flung the bottle across the room. It crashed into a trophy shelf and shattered, but he didn’t worry about the noise because there was no one around to hear it. After a marriage that had lasted for three decades, Ellen had left him. She’d told him he’d been acting crazy and he needed to go to a psychiatrist or something. Fuck that. He didn’t need to go to any psychiatrist. He just needed to get even with Dan Calebow.

After the Chargers game, he’d thought about killing Calebow. He’d eventually rejected the idea, not out of scruples, but because Calebow’s death wouldn’t necessarily guarantee a Stars’ loss. He needed something foolproof. He wasn’t rich enough to bribe anyone. Besides, the players made too much money these days to be susceptible, and most of the refs were honest. He wanted guarantees.

Phoebe Somerville appeared on the television screen. Last week he’d been hiding in the woods next to Calebow’s house when the coach had brought her home. The bedroom lights had gone on less than half an hour later. He’d been spying on them for months now, borrowing cars so Calebow wouldn’t spot him, and he knew their relationship was no longer casual. Although he’d filed the information away, until now he hadn’t known what to do with it.

The idea that had been slowly taking shape in his mind was both complex and amazingly easy. He’d probably be caught, but by then it would be too late, and he didn’t care what happened to him anyway. Only one thing mattered. Keeping the Stars from winning the AFC Championship.