“I doubt it was too hard to lure him out here today so he could witness our little meeting.”

“Not hard at all.”

“It’s been seven years, Phoebe. Don’t you think it’s time we bury the hatchet?”

“As long as the blade ends up in the back of your neck, I’m game.”

He slipped his fingers in his pockets and smiled. “The best day of my career was the day your brother-in-law signed on as my client. I still savor every minute of it.”

Phoebe scowled. She loved Kevin Tucker as though they were blood relatives instead of being related by marriage, and the fact that he’d ignored her entreaty and signed with Heath was a bitter pill she’d never quite been able to swallow. Heath’s first negotiations with her over Kevin’s contract had been brutal. Just because family was involved didn’t mean Phoebe believed in loosening her iron grip on the Stars’ finances, and he still remembered the way she’d methodically x-ed out an admittedly outrageous bonus package Heath had stuck in to test the waters.

“Family is family, and business is business. I love the boy, but not that much.”

“Who are you kidding?” Heath had said. “You’d walk over coals for him.”

“Yes, but I’d leave my checkbook behind while I was doing it.”

Heath gazed toward the practice field. Although training camp wouldn’t start for more than a month, a few players were running drills with the team’s trainer. He nodded toward a fourth-year player, one of the Zagorskis’ clients. “Keman’s looking good.”

“He’d look a lot better if he spent more time in the weight room and less time selling used cars on TV. But Dan likes him.”

Dan Calebow was the Stars’ president and Phoebe’s husband. They’d met when Phoebe had inherited the Stars from her father. At the time, Dan had been the head coach and Phoebe had known nothing about football, something that was hard to believe now. Their early battles were nearly as legendary as their ensuing love story. Last year one of the cable channels had made a cheesy movie about them, and Dan was still getting ribbed because he’d been portrayed by a former boy band singer.

“I want a three-year contract,” Phoebe said, getting down to the business of Caleb Crenshaw.

“Yeah, I’d want one, too, if I were you, but Caleb’s only signing for two years.”

“Three. It’s not negotiable.” She stated her case without consulting notes, reeling off complex statistics in her breathy, sex-kitten’s voice. They both had excellent memories, and he didn’t write anything down, either.

“You know I can’t advise Caleb to take that offer.” He propped his foot on the bench next to her. “By the third year, he’ll be worth millions more than you’ll be paying him.” Which was exactly why she wanted the three-year deal.

“Only if he stays healthy,” she retorted, as he’d known she would. “I’m the one taking all the risk. If he blows out his knee that third year, I’ll still have to pay him.” She went on from there, emphasizing her altruism and the unending gratitude a player should feel for simply being allowed to wear the uniform of football legends like Bobby Tom Denton, Cal Bonner, Darnell Pruitt, and, yes, Kevin Tucker.