When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Olivia Shore gazed out through the darkened window of the limousine toward the private jet parked on the tarmac. This was what her life had come to. Flying around the country with a brainless, overpaid jock and too many bad memories—all to hawk a luxury watch.

It was going to be the longest four weeks of her life.

*  *  *

Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens leaned closer to the jet’s window and peered out at the limousine that had stopped by the plane. Exactly thirty-eight minutes late. A driver emerged and pulled a suitcase from the back, then another, then a third. A garment bag appeared next, followed by a fourth suitcase. He drew his head away from the window. “What in the hell have I got myself into?”

Cooper Graham peered around him to see what he was looking at, and then gave Thad’s tailor-made virgin wool pants and cashmere silk sweater a semi-smirk. “Looks like you might have a little competition for the best dressed list.”

Thad scowled at the man who was both his best friend and a perpetual thorn under his skin. “I like good clothes.”

“Half the time, you look like a damn peacock.”

Thad shot a meaningful look at Coop’s jeans and hoodie. “Only in comparison to you.” He crossed his legs, resting one of his feet, clad in an Italian dress boot with a glove-soft interior, on the opposite knee. “Still, it was nice of you to come see me off.”

“The least I could do.”

Thad leaned into the leather seat. “You were afraid I wouldn’t show up, weren’t you?”

“It might have crossed my mind.”

“Tell me how you did it.”

“How I did what?”

“How you managed to convince Marchand Watches—excuse me, Marchand Timepieces—that having me as a brand ambassador was just as good as having the legendary Cooper Graham.”

“You’re not exactly a nobody,” Graham said mildly.

“Damn straight. And I’ve got the Heisman to prove it. The one trophy even you don’t have stowed away on your shelves.”

Graham grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Your lack of personal jealousy is what I most admire about you.”

“Since Marchand is the official watch of the Stars, and they couldn’t have you, they wanted Clint Garrett, didn’t they?”

“His name might have been mentioned.”

Thad gave a snort of disgust. Clint Garrett was the brilliantly talented, egotistical young asshole quarterback the Chicago Stars had signed last year to replace the void they hadn’t been able to fill when Coop had retired. The same Clint Garrett who Thad was supposed to make a better player and—oh, yeah—substitute for if the idiot kid got injured.

When Thad had come out of college sixteen years ago holding that Heisman, he’d seen himself as another Coop Graham or Tom Brady, not as a guy who’d end up spending most of his NFL career as a backup for the starting quarterbacks on four different pro teams. But that’s the way things had turned out. He was recognized as a brilliant strategist, an inspiring leader, but there was that almost trivial weakness in his peripheral vision that stood between him and greatness. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

A stir at the front of the plane drew their attention to The Diva who had finally graced them with her presence. She wore a belted tan trench coat over black pants, along with royal-blue stilettos that added five inches to her already impressive height. A few trails of dark hair emerged from the sides of a printed scarf wrapped around her head like in old photos Thad had seen of Jackie Kennedy. Along with the scarf, the pair of big-ass sunglasses perched on her long nose made her look like a jet-setter right out of the 1960s or maybe an Italian movie star. She tossed down a designer tote bag big enough to hold a golden retriever and took a seat near the front without acknowledging either of the men.

As the faint scent of luxury perfume, high culture, and undiluted arrogance wafted its way to the back of the plane, Coop unfurled from the seat. “Time for me to get out of here.”

“Lucky bastard,” Thad muttered.

Coop knew Thad well enough to know that The Diva wasn’t entirely responsible for Thad’s bad mood. “You’re what that kid needs,” he said. “Clint Garrett has the talent to go all the way, but not without the old man getting him there.”

Thad was thirty-six. Only in football years was that old.

Coop headed for the front of the plane. He stopped as he approached The Diva and nodded. “Ms. Shore.”

She inclined her head, barely acknowledging the man who’d been one of the greatest quarterbacks in the NFL. Thad had the God-given right to throw all the shade he wanted at Coop, but that highbrow opera singer didn’t.

Graham tossed Thad an amused glance and left the plane, a rat fleeing a sinking ship. Thad doubted Coop had thought twice about turning down Marchand’s lucrative offer to serve as brand ambassador for their new Victory780 men’s watch. The ex-quarterback didn’t like being away from his family, and he definitely didn’t need the money. As for Clint Garrett . . . Young Clint was too busy chasing women and driving fast cars to waste his time representing a prestige company like Marchand, official watch of both the Chicago Stars and the Chicago Municipal Opera.

Despite what he’d said to Coop, Thad wasn’t entirely surprised Marchand Timepieces had come after him to promote their Victory780 watch. They needed a Stars player, and Thad gave good interviews. Also, that old Heisman had garnered him plenty of publicity over the years. Still, anybody with eyeballs knew it wasn’t Thad’s throwing arm or glib rejoinders that had sealed the deal with Marchand. It was his pretty face.

“You’re even better looking than The Boo.” Coop had tweaked him the first time they’d met, referring to the great Stars quarterback Dean Robillard.

Thad’s looks were a curse.

One of his favorite ex-girlfriends had told him: “You’ve got Liam Hemsworth’s nose, Michael B. Jordan’s cheekbones, and Zac Efron’s hair. As for those green eyes . . . Taylor Swift for sure. It’s like all the good-looking celebs in the world threw up on your face.”

He missed Lindy, but she’d gotten fed up with his noncommittal crap. After she’d broken up with him, he’d sent her a new laptop so she’d know there were no hard feelings.

Over the years, he’d done everything he could to roughen up his appearance. He’d grown a beard a couple of times, but then people started telling him he looked like the dude in Fifty Shades. He’d tried a porn-star mustache only to have women say he looked distinguished. He’d even gone for irony and sported one of those asinine man buns for a while. Unfortunately, it looked good on him.

In high school, everybody got pimples but him. He’d never needed braces or gone through an awkward phase. He hadn’t broken his nose or gotten one of the chin scars every other player in the League had. His hair wasn’t thinning. He didn’t have a paunch.

He blamed his parents.

But the one positive thing about his looks, along with his lean, six-foot-three body, was the extra cash it earned him. And he did like making money. Over the years, he’d lent his face to a men’s cologne, his butt to designer underwear, and his hair to some overpriced grooming products he’d never bothered to use. And now this.

Four weeks on the road to promote Marchand’s new Victory780. Some photo shoots and interviews, along with a guest appearance at their big Chicago Municipal Opera gala as a finale. No sweat. Except for one snag. He wasn’t Marchand’s only brand ambassador. While he was promoting the Victory780, opera superstar Olivia Shore would be touting their ladies’ watch, the Cavatina3.

“Bonjour! Bonjour!”Henri Marchand appeared at the front of the plane, arms outstretched, his French accent oozing from him like Nutella from a warm crêpe. The long brown hair slicked back from his face fell over the top of his collar. Even without a beret perched on top of his head, he brought the air of the Continent with him. He was thin, maybe five nine, with a narrow face and sharp features. His impeccably tailored, charcoal wool suit had the European cut brawnier American-born men couldn’t pull off, although Thad had a similar striped neck scarf he sometimes wore in the European way because—why not?

Marchand advanced on The Diva. “Olivia, ma chérie.”

She extended her hand. He kissed it like she was fricking Queen Victoria, even though Thad happened to know she’d grown up in Pittsburgh, the only child of two deceased music teachers. Thad had done his homework.

Henri gazed toward the back of the plane, once again extending his arms. “And Thaddeus, mon ami!”

Thad gave him a bro-wave and contemplated stealing the name of his tailor.

“We will have such an adventure together.” More arm waving. “First stop, Phoenix, where you, madame, sang a breathtaking Dulcinée in Don Quichotte. And you, my friend Thad, threw a seventy-yard touchdown pass against the Arizona Cardinals. Glory days, yes? And the glory still shines brightly.”

For The Diva, maybe, but not for Thad.

Henri turned to the young woman who’d followed him on board. “This, mesamis, is my assistant Paisley Rhodes.” Was it Thad’s imagination or did Henri’s overly bright smile dim?

Paisley looked ready to head across campus for her Psych 101 class: a long swath of straight blond hair, too-perfect nose, slim figure dressed in a short skirt, blouse with a French tuck, and ankle boots. She also looked bored, as if stepping on a private jet took major effort.

“Paisley will be assisting us throughout our tour. If you need anything—anything at all—please let her know.”

Thad half expected a “whatev” to come out of her mouth because Paisley couldn’t have looked less interested in assisting anyone. He suspected a favor had been called in to get her hired.

The girl’s eyes settled on him, and he saw her first flicker of interest. Ignoring The Diva, she headed back to take the seat right next to him. “I’m Paisley.”

He nodded.

“My dad is, like, this huge football fan.”

Thad made his standard response. “Glad to hear it.”

As the plane took off, she proceeded to tell him her abbreviated—but not abbreviated enough—life story. Recent graduate of a Southern California college with a degree in communications. Just broke up with her boyfriend. She was an old soul in a young body—her assessment, not his. Her life goal: to become a personal assistant to a big—any big—celebrity. And—wait for it—her grandfather was a good friend of Lucien Marchand, which explained how she got the job.

She examined the watch on her wrist, one of Marchand’s basic models. “I never wear a watch.” She tapped her phone. “I mean, what’s the point, right? But they’re, like, making me wear a Marchand for the tour.”

“Bastards,” he said, with an absolutely straight face.

“I know. But my grampy says I have to start somewhere.”

“Good ol’ grampy.”

“I guess.”

To her credit, she left him alone in favor of her phone after the plane took off. He tilted back in his seat, closed his eyes, and indulged in his favorite fantasy, one where Clint Garrett threw three interceptions, broke his tibia, and was out for the season, leaving Thad to pick up the pieces. Clint, the poor bastard, ended up stuck on the bench watching Thad lead the Stars to the Super Bowl.

Henri Marchand’s silky French accent disturbed his fantasy. “I trust you’ve had time to read through the materials I sent about the Victory780.”

Thad reluctantly opened his eyes. He had a good memory, and he had no trouble recalling the details about the watch he’d been hired to promote. Henri Marchand, however, wasn’t taking any chances. “We’ve been developing the Victory780 for over ten years.” He settled on the next seat. “It’s a state-of-the-art chronograph watch, but it still reflects our classic Marchand heritage.”

“And a twelve-thousand-dollar price tag,” Thad noted.

“Prestige and precision have their price.”

As Marchand began expanding on the integrated self-winding movement and larger mainspring of the 780, Thad studied the watch he now wore on his wrist. He had to admit it was great looking, with a heavy steel bracelet, platinum case, and black ceramic bezel. The watch had a sapphire crystal, metallic blue dial, and three steel-rimmed sub-dials he could use to time his runs or to see how long Clint Garrett could go without saying “dude.”

“Tonight we have dinner with five of our biggest accounts,” Marchand said. “In the morning, you’ll be doing radio interviews—sports stations and morning talk—while Madame Shore visits the classical music station.”

Giving The Diva plenty of time to relax her precious vocal cords while Thad ran his ass off.

“Newspaper interviews after that. Some important bloggers. A public event in Scottsdale with photos.”

Thad had done product promotion before, and he knew exactly how these things worked. His name and Shore’s name opened the door for more interviews than Marchand could book on the brand’s name alone. Thad would be asked about his career, the state of pro football, and every current controversy in the NFL. In the process of answering, he’d be expected to talk about the watch.

Marchand finally excused himself and returned to The Diva’s side. Paisley reappeared and once again settled in the seat across from him. Thad noticed she hadn’t yet approached The Diva. Only him.

“Henri told me to give you this. It’s your updated itinerary.” She handed over a black folder embellished with the Marchand logo.

Thad was familiar with the schedule. For most of the next month, he and the Disagreeable Diva were being well paid to travel around the country promoting the brand. Eventually, they’d end up back where they started, in Chicago. While Thad took a two-week break, The Diva would be in rehearsals for the Chicago Municipal Opera’s production of Aida. On the Sunday night after the premiere, Marchand Timepieces was sponsoring a charity gala in conjunction with the Muni. After that, Thad’s obligations were over.

“I put my number on the first page,” Paisley said. “Text me any time. Any time.”

“I’ll do that.” He responded curtly—right on the border of rude—but he needed to nip this in the bud before it went any further. He had enough difficulties ahead of him dealing with The Diva, and he didn’t want any complications from Henri’s assistant. Besides, he hadn’t been into twenty-one-year-olds since he was twenty-two.

She tossed her long hair. “I mean it. I want you to know you can count on me.”

“Got it.” He slipped his headset back on. She finally took the hint and left him alone. He dozed off to Chet Baker.

*  *  *

The Diva sat in the opposite corner of the limo, sunglasses still on, cheek resting against the window. So far, the only communication she’d shared with Thad was a look of active hostility when they’d gotten off the plane. Paisley’s thumbs raced over her phone, more likely texting a friend than doing any work. Henri was also on his cell, engaged in an energetic conversation. Since Thad only spoke some menu French, he couldn’t decipher the topic. The Diva, however, understood. She opened her eyes and waved a hand.

“C’est impossible, Henri.”

The way she said Marchand’s name . . . pushing the Aw-ree from the back of her throat. When Thad said the name, it took all his energy just to drop the h and the n. Forget all that back-of-the-throat stuff.

Their subsequent exchange didn’t enlighten Thad about exactly what was so uh-poss-eeee-bluh, but as they pulled up to the hotel, Aw-ree enlightened him. “We’ve had a slight change of schedule. We need to move up today’s interviews immediately after we check in. An inconvenience, but these things do happen, as I’m sure you understand.”

Not even ten minutes later, he and The Diva were being ushered into the hotel’s presidential suite, with Henri and Paisley following. In addition to a luxurious living area, the suite had a dining room, kitchen, grand piano, and big French doors that opened onto a sweeping terrace. A large coffee table in the center of the living room held platters of pastries and assorted bottles of wine and mineral water.

“You have a few minutes to freshen up before the reporters arrive,” Henri said. “Paisley will bring them in.”

Paisley looked petulant, as if escorting reporters wasn’t part of her job description. Henri didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and was pretending not to.

The Diva disappeared into the bathroom. As Henri double-checked the refreshments that had been laid out for the reporters, Thad wandered onto the tiled terrace to take in the view of Camelback Mountain. If only he were doing this promotion with a female rock star instead of a stuck-up opera singer. The next four weeks stretched in front of him like an endless road headed exactly nowhere.

*  *  *

In the bathroom, the stuck-up opera singer leaned against the closed door, squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to make herself breathe. It was more than she could bear. Being forced to travel with an animal like Thad Owens was the final calamity in the disaster of these past few weeks. No matter what, she couldn’t let him see any weakness in her, any vulnerability he believed he could exploit.

If she’d known what was going to happen, she wouldn’t have even considered signing this contract with Marchand. She’d never backed out of a contract in her life, but she couldn’t imagine how she’d endure this next month. Smiling. Talking. Being congenial. And making sure she was never alone with him.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She took off her sunglasses and glanced at the screen. It was Rachel checking up on her. Rachel, her dear, steady friend who understood in a way no one else could. Olivia slipped the phone unanswered back in her pocket. She was jittery, unfocused, too raw to talk to Rachel now.

She unwrapped her scarf. Her hair was a mess. She didn’t care. Instead of straightening it, she sat on the lid of the toilet seat and closed her eyes. Donizetti’s “Pour mon âme” had been playing in her head all day. The aria from La fille du régiment, with its nine high C’s, was a showpiece for the world’s best tenors. Adam hadn’t been one of them, yet that hadn’t stopped her former fiancé from trying to perform it.

She blinked her eyes hard. The Cavatina3 on her wrist came into focus. A yellow-gold and stainless-steel bracelet, an ivory dial with diamond chips by the numerals. Cavatina. A simple melody without a second part or a repeat. In music, a cavatina was straightforward and uncomplicated, unlike either the luxurious Cavatina3 watch or her own very complicated life.

She gazed at the white envelope that had been in her apartment mailbox that morning. It was addressed to her in the same neat, block-printed letters as the first note she’d received two days earlier. She forced herself to open it. Her hands were shaking.

Only five words. You did this to me.

Swallowing a sob, she ripped it into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet.

*  *  *

Paisley ushered in two of the newspaper reporters and disappeared into the corner with her phone. Ironically, the music critic was big and beefy; the sports reporter small and wiry. The editor of the lifestyle section arrived soon after, a middle-aged woman with short hair slicked to her skull and multiple ear piercings.

Thad had yet to meet a member of the press who didn’t appreciate free food. Each of the men polished off a couple of cannoli along with a half dozen lemon cookies while the lifestyle editor sipped a glass of chardonnay and nibbled a few almonds. Thad exchanged small talk with all of them, hiding his irritation that The Diva was still sealed up in the bathroom. Just as he got ready to pound on the door and ask her if she’d fallen in, she deigned to join them.

She’d set aside her trench coat, along with the scarf and sunglasses, and she advanced toward the reporters, stilettos clicking, studiously ignoring him. Her sweep of dark hair coiled in one of those loose bun things, which—along with her royal-blue stilettos—brought her height to someplace in the vicinity of his. Her figure was formidable: broad shoulders, long neck, straight spine, and trim waist, all of it accompanied by skyscraper legs. She was neither skinny nor plump. More . . . He searched for the right word, but all he could come up with was “daunting.”

Along with her stilettos and black slacks, the open throat of her white blouse showed off a gold rope necklace with a pigeon egg–sized stone that appeared to be a giant ruby. She wore multiple rings, a couple of bracelets, and the Cavatina3. He liked his women small and cuddly. This one looked like a tigress who’d raided an Hermès store.

The men rose as she approached. Henri performed the introductions. She extended her hand and gazed down her long nose at them, her lips curved in a regal smile. “Gentlemen.” She acknowledged the lifestyle editor with a handshake and gracious smile before she folded herself into the chair across from Thad, ankles crossed off to the side, broomstick up her ass.

He deliberately slouched into his chair and stretched out his own legs, making himself comfortable. The classical music critic led off, but instead of addressing The Diva, he turned to Thad. “Are you an opera fan?”

“Haven’t had much exposure,” he said.

The sports writer picked up on that. “What about you, Ms. Shore? Do you ever go to football games?”

“Last year I saw New Madrid play Manchester United.”

Thad could barely disguise a snort.

The sports writer exchanged an amused look with him before turning back to her. “Those are European soccer teams, Ms. Shore, not American football.”

She adopted a girls will be girls look that Thad didn’t buy for a second. “Of course. How silly of me.”

There wasn’t anything silly about this woman, from the throaty resonance of her voice to her figure, and something told him she knew damn well they were soccer teams. Or maybe not. For the first time, she’d spiked his curiosity.

“So you’ve never seen Thad Owens play?”

“No.” She gazed directly at Thad for the first time, eyes as cold as a January night. “Have you ever heard me sing?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said with his best drawl. “But my thirty-seventh is coming up, and I’d sure welcome a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ to mark the occasion.”

The lifestyle editor laughed, but The Diva didn’t crack a smile. “Duly noted.”

The classical music critic launched into some questions about a concert The Diva had given last year in Phoenix and a follow-up about European opera houses. The sports writer asked Thad about his fitness regimen and his thoughts on the Cardinals’ prospects for next season.

Paisley had returned to her cell phone coma. Marchand offered more wine. “We’re honored to have two people as accomplished as Madame Shore and Mr. Owens as our new Marchand ambassadors. Both of them are style setters.”

The lifestyle editor took in Thad’s gray slacks and quarter-zip raspberry cashmere sweater. “What’s your fashion philosophy, Mr. Owens?”

“Quality and comfort,” he said.

“A lot of men wouldn’t be brave enough to wear that color.”

“I like color,” he said, “but I’m not into trends, and the only jewelry I wear is a great watch.”

She cocked her head. “Maybe a wedding ring someday?”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t wish me on anybody. I’m too unreliable. Now when it comes to reliability”—he extended his wrist, earning his paycheck—“this is what I count on. I’ve worn Marchand watches for years. That’s why I was attracted to their invitation. They’ve outdone themselves with the Victory780.”

Henri beamed. The lifestyle editor turned to The Diva. “What about you, Ms. Shore? How would you describe your fashion philosophy?”

“Quality and discomfort.” She surprised him by slipping off her stilettos.

The style editor’s gaze traveled from Thad’s raspberry sweater to The Diva’s black-and-white ensemble. “You seem to prefer neutral colors.”

“I believe in elegance.” She glanced at Thad with open contempt. What the hell was wrong with her? “Bright pink is best kept on the stage,” she said. “I’m only speaking for myself, of course.”

His sweater wasn’t fucking pink. It was raspberry!

“I’m very selective,” she went on, her attention returning to the lifestyle editor. “That’s why the Cavatina3 is the perfect watch for me.” She took it off and handed it to the reporter to examine more closely. “My schedule is demanding. I need a watch I can rely on, but also one that complements my wardrobe and my lifestyle.”

Commercial over.

They answered a few more questions. Where was Madame Shore living? How did Mr. Owens fill his time during the off-season?

“I needed a break from Manhattan,” The Diva replied, “and since I like Chicago, and it’s in the middle of the country, I rented an apartment there a few months ago. It makes domestic travel easier.”

Thad was deliberately vague. “I work out and look after everything I’m too busy to take care of during the season.”

Paisley missed her first cue to escort the reporters back to the lobby but finally got the message. After they’d disappeared, Marchand announced Olivia’s and Thad’s luggage had been delivered to the bedrooms that adjoined opposite sides of the suite. Henri gestured around the living and dining areas, along with the small kitchen. “As you can see, this is quite convenient for interviews and tomorrow’s photo shoot. The chef will be making tonight’s clients’ dinner in the private kitchen.”

The Diva’s head shot up, and her dramatic eyebrows drew together. “Henri, may I speak with you?”

“But of course.” The two of them moved toward the door into the hallway.

Thad was pissed. She obviously didn’t like the idea of them sharing the suite. Fine. She could move to another room because no way was he giving up that big terrace. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been more comfortable outside than inside, and being cooped up in hotel rooms for too long, no matter how big they were, made him jumpy. He wasn’t going anywhere.

*  *  *

Olivia had only taken a few steps before she realized she’d made a mistake. The doors had sturdy locks, and if she insisted on moving to another room, Thad Owens would realize she was afraid of him.

She touched Henri’s arm. “Never mind, Henri. We can talk later. Nothing important.”

As she picked up the stilettos she’d abandoned, Thad moved behind her. “Just so you know . . . ,” he said. “I don’t like nighttime visitors.”

She sucked in her breath, gave him her fiercest arctic glare, and sealed herself in her room.

*  *  *

Thad heard the lock click behind her. She’d looked at him with so much disdain he’d half expected her to say something operatic like, To the gallows, you swine!

Henri beamed. “What a woman! She is magnificent! La Belle Tornade.”

“Let me guess. ‘The beautiful turnip.’”

Henri laughed. “Non, non. She is called ‘the Beautiful Tornado’ for the power of her voice.”

Thad didn’t buy the “beautiful” part, not with those dark slabs of eyebrow and that long nose. As for “tornado” . . . “Ice storm” seemed more like it.

*  *  *

Thad made some phone calls and worked out in the hotel’s fitness center before he came back to the suite and showered. Through the closed bedroom door, he heard the sound of The Diva singing musical scales. He listened as the notes rose and fell, the vowel sounds subtly changing, from ees to ewws, then some mahs. It was mesmerizing. No doubt about it. The lady could sing. As her tone switched from light to dark, he got goose bumps. How could anybody hit those notes?

With dinnertime approaching, the smells coming from the private kitchen promised a good meal. He changed into a purple T-shirt and a black metallic Dolce & Gabbana blazer with a printed lavender pocket square. It was a little over the top, even for him, but he had a point to make.

He heard Henri’s voice in the living room, and as he stepped out, the guests began to arrive. They were all buyers, one from a local jewelry chain, a couple from department stores, and a few independent jewelers.

The Diva emerged in a floor-length black velvet gown. Her breasts caught his attention first. They weren’t big, but full enough to push above the gown’s neckline. She hadn’t cluttered up the view with any necklaces, only a pair of earrings. Her skin was naturally pale, but against all that black velvet, it seemed even paler. She wore the Cavatina3 on one wrist and a variety of rings on her long fingers. She’d tidied up her afternoon hair with a formal twist that was a little old-fashioned, but he had to admit it suited her. She had presence; he’d give her that.

She did her normal grand-entrance thing—arm extended, distant smile, regal stride—and she was right back on his nerves again. He wanted to rumple her up. Knock her off her pedestal. Smear that bright red lipstick. Pull out the pins holding her hair together. Shuck off her clothes and stick her in a pair of ratty jeans and an old Stars sweatshirt.

But as good as his imagination was, he couldn’t imagine her like that.

He hated formal dinner parties almost as much as he hated pass interceptions, but he talked to everyone. He was surprised how good The Diva was at it. She asked about their jobs, their families, and willingly looked at photos of their kids. Unlike him, her interest seemed genuine.

The meal began. Thad wasn’t much of a drinker, so he cut himself off after two glasses of wine, but The Diva seemed to have an iron stomach. Two glasses, three, then four. One more glass as everyone left, and the two of them headed to their separate bedrooms.

His had high ceilings and a single door that led onto the terrace. He went naked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. As usual, he avoided his reflection. No need to depress himself. But despite its size, the bedroom felt stuffy and confining. He pulled on a pair of jeans and opened the door that led to the terrace.

Tempered-glass fencing offered unobstructed views of the city lights, while the potted trees and flower beds gave the illusion of a park, with strategically placed seating areas for comfort. The chilly night air felt good on his skin.

He thought about the day. About what lay ahead. About training camp only four months away and how much playing time he would or wouldn’t get. As he moved around a potted tree to get a better view of the skyline, he thought about his future and a career that had fallen short of his dreams.

*  *  *

Wine wasn’t good for her voice. Wine, caffeine, dry air, drafts, trauma—none of it good for her voice, which was why she seldom had more than a single glass of wine. Yet here she was, not just a little drunk, but drunk-drunk. Unsteady on her feet, unsteady in her head. She’d been on edge for days, nerves shredded, ready to detonate. Now, a dangerous, alcohol-fueled energy made her want to gather her gown around her knees, climb up on the terrace rail, and use it as a balance beam just to see if she could do it. She wasn’t suicidal. She left that for others. Instead, she wanted a challenge. Better yet, a target. Something to conquer. She wanted to be a superhero, a protector of the weak, a drunken crusader fighting for justice. Instead, she was battling a ghost.

Something moved behind her. Too close. Him.

She wheeled around and attacked.