On television, Phoebe Somerville’s interview had ended and the cameras returned to the Stars’ coach. Ray lifted his .38 and blew out the screen.

Dan had been through the media blitz that surrounds championship games as a player, but never as a coach, and he decided it was a good thing he’d learned to survive without sleep. Even so, by the time he freed up a few hours late Tuesday afternoon following the Stars’ victory over the Dolphins, he was definitely punchy. He was also mad as hell at Phoebe.

As he pulled into her driveway and got out of his car, he decided the first thing he was going to do when he finally got hold of her was to kiss her. Then he was going to give her a piece of his mind. He knew exactly how busy she was, but so was he, and she could have squeezed in ten minutes sometime during the last two days to talk to him. Both of them had been under a lot of pressure, but that didn’t mean they should shut each other out. She hadn’t even flown home with the team Sunday night, something he’d been looking forward to. The last time he’d seen her was in the locker room after the game when Ron had brought her down to congratulate the team.

Phoebe’s housekeeper, Peg, let him in as she was getting ready to leave for the day. He dropped his coat over the banister and heard high-pitched squeals coming from the back of the house. At first he didn’t recognize the sounds, not because they were so unusual, but because they were so unexpected.

Pooh trotted out to greet him. With the dog at his heels, he made his way through the living room, then came to an abrupt stop as he reached the archway that led into the kitchen. What he saw there nearly knocked him off his feet.

“I want to do it, Phoebe!”

“It’s my turn!”

“Mine!”

“Hush! You can both do it, you little stinkers. Here’s a knife for each of you. That’s the way, Jared. Good job, Jason. A little more icing on the side. No, Jared, don’t lick it until we’re—Oh, well, what are a few germs between friends? Right, pal?”

Jesus. He knew it wasn’t just lack of sleep that was making his eyes sting, but emotion. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life than Phoebe icing that ugly-looking cake with those two little towheaded boys kneeling on chairs beside her.

She didn’t look at all like the mother of his imagination. Her man-killer fingernails were painted vampire red. Big gypsy hoop earrings played peek-a-boo with her calendar girl hair, and at least three bracelets clinked on each of her wrists. She had on an oversized Stars’ sweatshirt—she’d gotten that part right, at least—but instead of wearing it with some nice jeans like mothers were supposed to, she had on the tightest, slinkiest pair of gold stretch pants he’d ever seen in his life.