“I have to. The players think I’m bad luck.” He thrust something into her hand. “I’ll be waiting for you in the skybox when the quarter’s over. You’ll do fine. And, uh—Bert always slapped Bobby Tom’s butt.”

Before she could absorb that unwelcome piece of information, he rushed off the field, leaving her alone with dozens of grunting, sweating, battle-hardened men, who were hell-bent on inflicting mayhem. She opened her fist and stared down at her hand in bewilderment. Why had Ron given her a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint gum?

Dan appeared at her side, and she had to fight down a crazy desire to throw herself in his arms and ask him to protect her. The desire faded as he speared her with unfriendly eyes.

“Don’t move from this spot till the end of the quarter. Got it?”

She could only nod.

“And don’t screw up. I mean it, Phoebe. You have responsibilities, and you’d better carry out every single one of them. You and I might think the players’ superstitions are ridiculous, but they don’t.” Without any further explanation, he stalked away from her.

The encounter had only lasted for a few seconds, but she felt as if she’d been broadsided by a bulldozer. Before she could recover, one of the men came charging toward her dangling his helmet by the face guard. Although she had kept herself away from the players, she recognized Bobby Tom Denton from his photograph: blond hair, broad cheekbones, wide mouth. He looked tense and edgy.

“Miz Somerville, we haven’t met, but—I need you to slap my butt.”

“You—uh—must be Bobby Tom.” A very rich Bobby Tom.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She absolutely could not do this. Maybe some women were born to be butt-slappers, but she wasn’t one of them. Quickly lifting her hand, she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. “How about a new tradition, Bobby Tom?”

She waited with apprehension to see if she’d done something irreversible to his karma and, in the process, blown $8 million. He began to frown and the next thing she knew, hot pink ribbons whipped her legs as he snatched her up off the ground and planted a resounding smack on her lips.

He grinned and set her back down. “That’s an even better tradition.”

Hundreds of people in the crowd had caught the exchange and as he trotted away, she heard laughter. Dan had also observed the kiss, but he definitely wasn’t laughing.

Another monster headed toward her. As he approached, he barked an order to someone behind him and she saw the name “Biederot” on the back of his sky blue jersey. This must be her temperamental quarterback.