“Not exactly. It’s just . . .” He steered her toward one of the private elevators and pushed the button. “Phoebe, this is funny really.” The doors slid open, and he drew her inside. “You’ve probably heard that athletes are notoriously superstitious. Some of them insist on wearing the same pair of socks all season or putting on their equipment in exactly the same order. A lot of them have developed elaborate pregame rituals over the years—which doors they use, how they approach the stadium. They tuck good luck charms in their uniforms. Silly stuff, really, but it gives them confidence, so there’s no harm.”

She regarded him suspiciously as the elevator began its descent. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Not you, exactly. Well, Bert, really. And certain members of the team.” He glanced nervously at his watch. “It involves the Bears, too. And Mike McCaskey.”

McCaskey was the grandson of George Halas, the legendary founder of the Chicago Bears. He was also the Bears’ controversial president and CEO. But, unlike herself, McCaskey knew something about running a football team, so Phoebe didn’t see the connection.

The doors slid open. As she and Ron stepped out, she saw sunlight, despite the fact that she knew they were beneath the stadium. She realized they were in a hallway that ended in a large tunnel leading to the field. Ron turned her toward it.

“Ron, you’re starting to make me very nervous.”

He withdrew a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his forehead. “Mike McCaskey spends the first quarter of every Bears’ game standing on the field by the bench. He doesn’t interfere with the game, but he’s always there, and it’s become a ritual.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Bert didn’t like the fact that McCaskey was on the field while he was up in the Stars’ skybox, so a few years back he started doing the same thing, and it’s—uh—become part of the routine. The players have gotten superstitious about it.”

A distinct uneasiness was creeping through her. “Ron—”

“You have to stand on the field with the team for the first quarter,” he said in a rush.

“I can’t do that! I don’t even want to be in the skybox, let alone out on the field!”

“You have to. The men expect it. Jim Biederot is your starting quarterback, and he’s one of the most superstitious athletes I’ve ever met. Quarterbacks are like tenors; they’re easily upset. And Bobby Tom was quite vocal about it before the game. He doesn’t want his karma disrupted.”

“I don’t care about his karma!”

“Then how about your $8 million?”

“I’m not going out there.”

“If you don’t, you’re ducking your responsibilities and you’re not the person I thought you were.”