Page 2 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

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 hi

s 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, mes amis, 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.

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