Ron sat at the desk, his chair turned away from the door toward the window behind him. He was in his shirtsleeves, elbows propped on the arms of the chair.

She stepped inside cautiously. “Ron?”

He turned. “Hello, Phoebe.”

Her heart almost broke as he gave her a rueful smile. Despite his subdued manner, she permitted herself a flicker of hope. “Have you already—Have you talked with Steve Kovak?”

“Do you want to know if he’s fired me? Yes, he has.” She regarded him with dismay. “I didn’t realize you were the general manager. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew.”

“If I had, I would never have let this happen.” Even as she said the words, she remembered her agreement with Dan. Part of that agreement had been her promise to fire the acting general manager.

“It’s all right. Really. It was inevitable.”

“But, Ron . . .”

“I only got the job as assistant GM because my father and Bert were good friends. Your father was never impressed with me, and he would have fired me after six months if Carl Pogue hadn’t gone to bat for me.”

She sank into a chair. “At least someone was behind you.”

“I loved working for Carl. We complemented each other perfectly, which was why Carl didn’t want Bert to fire me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Carl has good football instincts and he’s a strong leader, but he’s not exceptionally intelligent. I had the qualities he lacked—organizational ability, a head for business—but I’m a total failure as a leader. Carl and I had worked it out so that I’d do the planning and strategy work and he’d carry it through.”

“Are you saying you’re the one who was running the team?”

“Oh, no. Carl was in charge.”

“Implementing your ideas.”

“That’s true.”

She rubbed her forehead. “This is terrible.”

“If it’s any consolation, firing me was the proper decision. If a GM in the pros is going to be effective, everyone who works for him—from the office staff right up to the coaches—needs to fear him at least a little bit. The men don’t even respect me, let alone fear me. I’ve got the brains to do the job, but I don’t seem to have the personality. Or maybe I just don’t have the guts.”

“I do.” She straightened in her chair, as surprised as Ron that she had spoken aloud the words she had merely been thinking.

“I beg your pardon.”

Her mind raced. Bert had wanted her to be a figurehead. He had expected her to spend her days sitting in his old office, obediently signing the papers that were put in front of her and doing what she was told. It would never have occurred to him that she might try to learn something about the job.

She had vowed she wasn’t going to play her father’s game, and now she saw a way to fulfill the terms of the will but keep her self-respect. “I have the guts,” she repeated. “I just don’t have the knowledge.”