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  He stopped, realizing belatedly that she was teasing him.

  She winked and walked in the direction of the hotel coffee shop with Stevie, red-faced, two paces behind.

  The problem with eating in the hotel coffee shop was that they kept getting interrupted every couple of minutes by people who recognized Susan Carol—or, in a few cases, recognized both of them.

  “Let’s eat and then go for a walk,” she said. “We can’t really talk here.”

  “It’s snowing outside,” Stevie said. “Why don’t we just go up to my room?”

  “Why, Steven Richman Thomas, what exactly are your intentions?”

  He managed a laugh. “My intention, Scarlett, is for us to figure out what to do next.”

  They managed to get through lunch with only a couple more interruptions—Stevie found it a bit unnerving when people asked Susan Carol for autographs—and headed back up to Stevie’s room.

  Susan Carol tossed her coat on one of the beds and sat down in the same chair she’d sat in at two o’clock that morning. She looked tired. That is, until Stevie filled her in on his conversation with Brennan—then they were wired again. This was real—and huge. But all they could do was speculate before they talked to Eddie at four, so they killed the remaining time reading through Stevie’s story so she could help him cut it.

  “I like it,” she said. “You don’t think there’s any way they would run it the way you wrote it?”

  “The Herald has eight people here,” he said. “They’re all writing. I’m last in line, don’t you think, to get extra space?”

  “Probably right,” she said. “Too bad, though. This is good stuff.”

  “Yeah, but tomorrow I’ve got to find my own story. Bobby’s set me up two days in a row.”

  She laughed. “You may be the single most competitive person I’ve ever met,” she said. “You can’t just be happy you did a good job. You have to do a good job with no help.”

  But he did let her help him cut the story down to size, and they were just finishing when the phone rang. Stevie glanced at his watch. It was a couple of minutes before four.

  “Stevie, it’s Eddie,” Brennan said.

  “We were just about to call you.”

  “We?”

  “Susan Carol and I…”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. Sorry. Look, I can’t meet with you tonight, we’ve got meetings and a team dinner. I can’t get away. It will have to be tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t you guys have to be at the Dome by nine o’clock?”

  “Yeah. I was thinking we could meet at about seven-thirty. We just need to find a place where no one will see us. I don’t need anyone asking me questions about why I’m hanging around with the world’s most famous kid reporters so much.”

  Stevie sort of liked that description. But he understood. He turned to Susan Carol and told her what Brennan was suggesting.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Give me the phone.”

  He handed it to her. “Hi, Eddie, it’s Susan Carol,” she said. “Do you think you can find the IUPUI Natatorium? It’s not far from the Dome at all, but if we meet there at seven-thirty in the morning there’s almost no one around.”

  She waited for a moment while he answered. “Just tell the cabdriver you need to go to the IUPUI Natatorium. Everyone in town knows it. Stevie and I will meet you in the hallway right outside the entrance to the gym at seven-thirty.”

  She paused again. “I was there yesterday. Trust me, there won’t be anyone in the hallway. I walked down it by accident because I went the wrong way on the way out. Everyone goes in and out by the pool in the morning. Wear a cap or a hood or something just in case you see someone, but I’m pretty sure you won’t.”

  She listened for another minute, then gave him her cell phone number and Stevie’s. “Okay, see you then.”

  She hung up.

  “IUPUI—that’s where the Ravens are practicing, right?” Stevie said.

  “Yes, but not that early and not that close by—the campus is huge,” she said. “It also happens to have one of the great swimming facilities in the country. They hold national championships and Olympic trials there all the time.”

  Now he was beginning to understand. Susan Carol was ranked seventh in the country in the 100-yard butterfly and fifth in the 200-yard butterfly in the thirteen-to-fourteen-year-old age group. He had looked it up on the Internet—she never would have told him. “Let me guess,” he said. “You went there yesterday to work out.”

  She nodded. “I promised my coach I would swim at least every other morning while I was here,” she said. “We’re only a month away from the state championships, and AAU nationals are two weeks after that. He wasn’t happy I’d be gone for a week, but I promised him I’d get my workouts in.”

  “So what time do you go over there?” he said.

  “They don’t open until five-thirty—”

  “What do you mean, ‘don’t open until five-thirty’?”

  “At home, we’re in the water at five. I’ll have to cut my workout a little short tomorrow, but that’s okay.” She smiled. “You want to go over there with me at six? You could get in the water a little bit. Wake you right up.”

  “No way,” he said. “First of all, I can swim the four strokes—barely—and that’s it. Second, there’s no way I’m getting up that early. Third, I have no interest in being humiliated by you.”

  She was laughing. “Okay then, meet me on the deck at seven-fifteen. I’ll get out and we can walk upstairs together after I get dressed. Just tell them you’re meeting someone on the deck and they’ll let you in.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yeah. They let Jamie in.”

  “Jamie?!”

  “He said he wanted to see me swim.”

  “I’ll bet he did.”

  She stood up and put her coat on, pushing her long brown hair back over her shoulders. “I have to go get changed for this NFL party tonight,” she said. “I assume you’re going too?”

  He had completely forgotten about the party. Bobby had told him it was the bash of the week, that everyone in football would show up for it. It was in some gigantic ballroom in the Westin Hotel, which fortunately was right next door to the Marriott.

  “I guess I’ll be there,” he said, standing up. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  She held a hand up. “No need. I’ll just get a cab outside.”

  She took a step toward him, put an arm around his back, and kissed him, almost casually—as if they did this all the time.

  She didn’t wait for a response, which was good since at that moment about all Stevie could think to say was “whaa?” Either that or “Can we try that one more time?”

  “See you at the party,” she said, and she was gone.

  Stevie sat on the bed, a bit dazed. The thought of Jamie Whitsitt going to watch her swim still upset him. He decided he would get there in enough time the next day to see her swim himself. He had a feeling he would be impressed.

  11: INTO THE RED ZONE

  STEVIE WALKED TO THE PARTY with Bobby and Tamara. He and Susan Carol had decided not to say anything to them about the drug tests until after they had heard what Brennan had to say in the morning. “It might help if we can say that we haven’t talked to anyone about this yet,” she said. “It might make him more comfortable.”

  Stevie agreed. What’s more, there wasn’t anything Kelleher or Mearns could do before morning anyway. Letting it ride until then couldn’t hurt and it might help. Plus, they wanted to hear from Eddie how many people were in the know on this. They didn’t want to start asking too many questions and tip their hand to the wrong people.

  The Marriott was only about a five-minute walk from the Westin, but the walk felt like five miles to Stevie. The wind was swirling and, with the sun down, the temperature had dropped well below freezing.

  “They couldn’t hold this thing at the Marriott?” Kelleher said, his teeth chattering a bit as they walked up the d
rive to the Westin.

  “The NFL people are staying here,” Mearns said. “If someone’s going out on a night like this, it isn’t going to be them.”

  “I suspect the commissioner’s staying at the Canterbury,” Kelleher said.

  “Probably,” Mearns said. “But he isn’t walking over.”

  The ballroom of the Westin was the single largest room Stevie had ever seen. Once they had checked in and been given name tags, they found themselves practically tripping over celebrities everywhere they turned. Within five minutes, Stevie had spotted—among others—Phil Mickelson, Derek Jeter, Albert Pujols, Wayne Gretzky (yet again), Peyton and Eli Manning, David Letterman, Bob Costas, Ben Affleck, and Matt Damon.

  “I think Susan Carol will faint if she gets anywhere near Matt Damon,” Stevie said.

  “I might faint if I get anywhere near him,” Tamara said, smiling.

  They had made their way into the middle of the room, where Stevie could see a massive buffet with enough food to feed the entire population of Indiana. He was about to tell Mearns and Kelleher that he was going to get something to eat when he heard a voice behind them say, “Well, well, what a surprise. Free food and Bobby Kelleher in the same place.”

  Stevie turned and saw a short man with dark hair and thick glasses standing a few feet away from them. Two very large men Stevie took to be bodyguards stood a couple of feet behind him. Kelleher looked at the man with barely concealed contempt. “Don, just seeing you makes this anything but a free meal,” Kelleher said.

  As soon as he heard the name, Stevie figured out that the sneering little man was Don Meeker, the owner of the California Dreams. Kelleher’s column on him had run that morning. He said that the Dreams were exactly the kind of team he liked to pull for—the underdog, lots of young players, a rising-star quarterback. Unfortunately, their owner was just the kind of guy you had to root against—an obnoxious bully who thought that being rich gave him the right to treat people like dirt. He had cited several examples of Meeker’s boorish behavior to back up his premise. Stevie thought the column was a riot, but seeing Meeker and Kelleher face to face wasn’t so funny.

  “What gives you the right to libel me the way you do?” Meeker said. “You don’t know me well enough to rip me.”

  “I know you plenty well enough, Don,” Kelleher said, his voice a lot softer and calmer than Meeker’s. “I know that you fired a secretary in your public relations department who was twenty years older than you because she called you Don instead of Mr. Meeker. I know you screamed at an elevator operator in your stadium because she let someone get on the elevator with you. I know you fired your defensive coordinator because you told him to bench a cornerback and he didn’t do it. You want me to go on? There’s plenty more I didn’t print.”

  Meeker was red-faced. “Why don’t you write about the money I give to charity? What about that?”

  “Your motives aren’t so charitable if you’re only doing it to balance out your bad press. I’m willing to bet that Steve Bisciotti gives more money to charity than you do and he would never bring it up to anyone.”

  “You better not ever try to cover a game in my stadium,” Meeker said. “You’ll never get inside.”

  Kelleher laughed. “Oh, please, go ahead and deny me a credential. You’ll make me famous—not to mention a hero. Judge a man by his enemies, Donny. I’m happy to count you as one.”

  “You call yourself an objective reporter?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m a columnist. They pay me for my opinions. While you have to pay people pretty well to listen to yours.”

  Meeker’s response was a profanity, one Stevie frequently heard in school but which was strictly verboten around his parents.

  “Clever,” Kelleher said.

  He was about to go on when a man with well-coiffed blond hair walked up and put an arm around Meeker. “Now, Don, we’re not quarreling with the media tonight, right?” he said. “We’re all here to celebrate a great season and to have a good time.”

  Stevie recognized the man right away as Roger Goodell, the commissioner of the NFL. Clearly, he didn’t want one of his owners yelling profanities at a reporter in front of a room full of media. A small crowd had gathered around as Meeker and Kelleher went at it.

  “Guy shouldn’t even be in here,” Meeker said. He tossed Goodell’s arm off his shoulder, pointed at Kelleher, and said, “Either he goes or I go.”

  Goodell’s smile disappeared. “Come on, Don, lighten up. Your team’s in the Super Bowl. It’s all good,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me to lighten up,” Meeker said. “And don’t call me Don. Remember who you work for.”

  He turned and stalked away, followed closely by the bodyguards. Goodell looked exasperated. “Bobby, you don’t have to print this, do you?” he said.

  Kelleher looked at him. “All due respect, Commissioner, but are you kidding me?”

  Goodell put a hand up. “I understand. I think I’ll go buy myself a drink.”

  Kelleher was swarmed by other reporters, who had only seen part of the confrontation. Stevie decided it was time to find Susan Carol, who had to be around somewhere. He pushed his way out of the circle that had formed around Kelleher and began wandering around the room. He was about to take a respite from his search and get some food when he saw her—talking to Matt Damon.

  “Figures,” he said to himself.

  She was wearing the high heels again, and she looked pretty spectacular in a dark-colored dress. It was a conservative dress, the kind you would expect a minister’s daughter to wear to a party, but on her it looked great. Feeling a bit nervous, he walked over to where she and Damon were standing.

  “Stevie!” Susan Carol said. “I’ve been looking for you all night. Have you met Matt Damon?”

  Sure, Stevie thought, Matt and I go way back. “No, I haven’t,” he said, shaking hands with Damon. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Damon.”

  “It’s Matt,” he said with a friendly smile. “I’m not that old. I read the story you wrote on Ed Brennan and his high school buddy, the equipment guy. It was really good.”

  “It’ll be on CBS later tonight,” Susan Carol said.

  “I’ll have to watch,” Damon said.

  “Matt’s in town doing research on a movie,” Susan Carol said. “He’s thinking of doing something based on Ed Brennan’s story.”

  “That could make a great movie,” Stevie said.

  Damon nodded. “I think so—plus, you’ve gotta love research that brings you to the Super Bowl.”

  Someone was calling his name. Damon shook his head. “Gotta go,” he said. “My agent wants me to meet some of the money people here. Believe me, I’d rather chat with you two.”

  He shook hands with both of them. “Enjoy the week,” he said. “I’ll be watching for your stuff. Susan Carol, if you ever want to get into acting, give me a call.”

  She laughed. “I like journalism,” she said. “But thanks.”

  Damon walked off, heads turning to follow him, Stevie noticed, as he crossed the room. “If you want to sigh about him, I won’t mind,” he said. “He seems extremely nice.”

  “I thought so too,” she said. “What was that commotion I saw a little while ago over near the buffet?”

  “Let’s walk outside and I’ll tell you about it,” he said.

  They headed out of the ballroom into the lobby, where it was ten degrees cooler and ten decibels quieter. Stevie had just given Susan Carol the blow by blow when he noticed that Don Meeker had not yet left the building. He and his bodyguards were standing with another short man who also appeared to be accompanied by bodyguards.

  “Hey, look at that,” Susan Carol said. “It’s Little Donny and Little Danny.”

  Sure enough, Meeker was talking to Dan Snyder, the owner of the Washington Redskins. Meeker appeared to be doing most of the talking, waving his arms angrily.

  “He’s probably telling him about what happened with Kelleher,” Stevie said.

  “He’s g
ot a good audience then—Snyder hates Bobby,” Susan Carol said. “I think Bobby’s the one who first started calling him ‘Little Danny.’”

  Stevie giggled. “Can’t imagine why that would upset him. Look at the two of them. They look like a couple of windup toys.”

  Meeker and Snyder shook hands, and Meeker started to walk away. “Come on,” Susan Carol said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, she started walking as fast as she could in heels, reminding Stevie that he needed to ask her why she was wearing them again. He followed her as she followed Meeker and his bodyguards, who were headed for an escalator.

  “Mr. Meeker,” she called. “Excuse me, Mr. Meeker?”

  She had put on her full Southern accent, the one that had caused Stevie to start calling her Scarlett. Hearing a female voice, Meeker stopped a few yards short of the escalator and turned around. Seeing Susan Carol walking in his direction, Meeker smiled.

  “Yes?” he said. “What can I do for you, young lady?”

  Susan Carol gave him the smile. “My name is Susan Carol Anderson. I just wanted to meet you because I have so admired the way you’ve built the Dreams.”

  Meeker’s smile was now a smirk. “Why, thank you, young lady. What brings you here tonight?”

  “Oh, well, I do this little show on USTV? Kid-Sports? Not anything you would watch with your schedule, I’m sure.”

  Meeker grunted. “I don’t watch much TV. Most of it’s crap. Your network is better than the others, I’ll say that much.”

  Susan Carol looked sympathetic. “Oh, I know,” she said. “I don’t think the media have gotten your story right at all. It must be so hard to own a team. And you’ve come so far so quickly.”

  Stevie was tempted to slap a hand across his mouth to keep from laughing. He had seen this act before and could see it was working again, just as it always did.

  “No one knows how hard it is to own a team,” Meeker said, completely charmed. “For someone so young, you are very wise. And very pretty.”

  Susan Carol appeared to blush. “Do you think there is any way we could get you to appear on our show?”