Someone came up beside him, but he was watching the tailback so intently that several minutes passed before he looked over. When he turned, he didn’t instantly recognize the man, and he was about to tell him to get the hell off his practice field before he realized who it was.

“Ronald?”

“Coach.”

The kid didn’t look like himself; he looked like a South American gigolo. His hair was slicked back, and he wore dark glasses along with a black T-shirt, baggy slacks, and one of those boxy European sport coats with the collar turned up and the sleeves pushed to his elbows.

“Jesus, Ronald, what’d you do to yourself?”

“I’m unemployed. I don’t have to dress like a stiff anymore.”

Dan spotted a cigarette in the kid’s hand. “Since when do you smoke?”

“On and off. I just never thought it was a good idea to do it around the men.” He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gestured toward the field with his head. “You’re going with the new tailback sweep.”

“If Fenster can learn his left from his right.”

“Bucker looks good.”

Dan was still distracted by the changes in Ronald, not only the difference in his appearance, but his unusual composure. “He’s coming along.”

“So did Phoebe pick the new GM yet?” Ronald asked.

“Hell, no.”

“That’s what I figured.”

Dan made a snort of disgust. Phoebe’d had a list of candidates since the day she’d arrived more than a week ago, but instead of making a choice, she’d told him she wanted Ronald back. He’d reminded her they had an agreement and told her she’d damn well better live up to it or she could find herself another head coach. When she realized he meant it, she’d stopped arguing. But they had lost their final preseason game last weekend, and with their season opener against the Broncos this Sunday, she still hadn’t interviewed a single candidate.

Instead of working, she sat at the desk in Ronald’s old office and read fashion magazines. She wouldn’t use Bert’s office because she said she didn’t like the decor. When anybody gave her even the simplest form to sign, the bridge of her nose would pucker and she’d say she’d get to it later, but she never did. Monday, when he’d barged in on her because she’d somehow managed to hold up everybody’s paychecks, she’d been painting her goddamn fingernails! He’d gotten mad then, but he’d barely begun to yell before her lip had started to tremble and she’d said he couldn’t talk to her like that because she had PMS.