Sabers 24, Stars 17.

As the Sabers kicked the extra point, Biederot slammed his helmet against the bench, hitting it with such force that the face mask cracked. Dan knew it was only a matter of time before Jim ignored the threat to bench him and began calling his own plays. With less than ten minutes left on the clock and the temper of the crowd growing uglier by the minute, he could no longer keep the game on the ground.

All his life Dan had been a team player and going it alone had become too risky. Praying that he wasn’t making a fatal mistake, he called Jim and Bobby Tom over just before the offense took the field again.

Jim’s face was ruddy with fury, Bobby Tom’s rigid. Both of them started spewing obscenities.

“Bench me, you cocksucker! I don’t give a skit because I don’t want to be part of this.”

“We didn’t work this fucking hard to have you fuck us like this!”

A minicam zoomed in on them. Dan grabbed their arms and ducked his head. His voice was low and fierce. “Shut up and listen! Phoebe’s been kidnapped. The man who has her is crazy. He says he’s going to kill her if we win this game.” He felt the muscles in their arms grow rigid, but he didn’t glance up because he was certain the cameras were on him. “He’s watching on television. I can’t let the team score even a field goal because he’s threatened to hurt her if we put any numbers on the board.” He sucked in his breath and lifted his head. “I believe he’ll do it.”

Biederot swore softly, while Bobby Tom looked murderous.

Dan let every one of his emotions show in his eyes as he called the next series of plays. “Make it look good. Please. Phoebe’s life depends on it.”

He could see they had a dozen questions, but there was no time to ask them, and to their credit, neither man offered any argument.

In the subbasement below the dome, Phoebe heard the crowd cheer. Her bloody fingers grew still on the knot, and her eyes snapped to the television. She stopped breathing as Jim threw a long pass over the middle to Bobby Tom. Bobby Tom extended his body in the lean, graceful line that had been photographed so often, with his weight balanced only on the tips of his toes. How many times this season had she seen him snatch the ball out of the air from exactly that position, defying gravity as effortlessly as a ballet dancer?

But not this time. The crowd groaned as the ball bounced off his fingertips. Bobby Tom fell to the turf, and she remembered to breathe again.

It was the first long pass Biederot had thrown in the second half, and she wondered if Dan’s control over the men had at last snapped. She refused to think about what that would mean. Not now. Not when the knot that held her to the chair had finally given way.