Dan hated talking about the Stars’ acting general manager nearly as much as he hated talking about the new owner. “Why didn’t Ronald talk to me in person?”

“He’s scared to death of you. Ever since you stuffed him in that locker.”

“He made me mad.”

“Ronald was never anything more than Carl’s gofer.” Tully shook his head. “Everybody knows he only got the job because Bert owed his daddy a favor. I know Bert would never have let his daughter get her hands on the Stars if he knew Carl was going to quit. Ronald’s a candy ass, Ice. Did I tell you about the time Bobby Tom was foolin’ around after practice last season when Ronald came out to the field? You know how Bobby Tom is, just havin’ a little fun, says, ‘Hey, Ronnie, we’re looking for a new wide-out.’ And he lobs the ball at him real soft, couldn’t have been more than five yards. Anyway, Ronald puts up his arm to catch it and jams his finger. He starts shaking his hand like somebody killed him. Bobby Tom like to bust a gut. How can you respect a general manager can’t even catch a lob like that?”

Tully’s monologue was interrupted by one of the subjects under discussion, last year’s starting wide receiver for the Stars, Bobby Tom Denton. Bobby Tom liked to dress well, and his impeccably tailored black tuxedo was accompanied by a ruffled white dress shirt, glittering silver bow tie, lizardskin boots, and a big black Stetson.

As far as anybody knew, the only time Bobby Tom took off his Stetson was when he put on his helmet. One of his many girlfriends had told the National Enquirer he even wore it when he made love. Her word was suspect, however, since she’d also told the Enquirer that Bobby Tom was the illegitimate son of Roy Orbison, a statement that had mightily upset Bobby Tom’s mother, despite the fact that anybody who’d ever heard Bobby Tom sing could have figured out it was a lie.

Bobby Tom nodded his Stetson at Tully and Dan. “Coach. Coach.”

Dan nodded back. “Bobby Tom.”

The wide receiver turned to Tully. “Hey, Coach, what d’ya think? That redhead over there told me all her girlfriends think I’m the best-looking wide-out in the league. What about you? Do you think my profile’s better than Tom Waddle’s?”

Tully contemplated the wide receiver’s profile while he gave the question serious consideration. “I don’t know, Bobby Tom. Waddle’s nose is straighter than yours.”

Bobby Tom tended to get belligerent when anyone challenged his good looks, and tonight was no exception. “Is that so? For your information she said I look like that movie star—what’s his name? Christian Slater.” Bobby Tom frowned. “Either of you know who Christian Slater is?”

Neither of them did.

For a moment Bobby Tom looked befuddled. Then he snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and grinned. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing about him. He’s a damned fine looking sonavabitch.”