At a little over six feet, he was taller than some of the other quarterbacks. He was also quick, smart, and he had a telepathic ability to read defenses that only the finest players share. His legend had grown nearly as big as the great Joe Montana’s, and the fact that it didn’t look like Jodie would ever have number eighteen hanging in her closet was something she could never forgive.

“Cal, your team had four turnovers against the Patriots last week. What are you going to do against the Bills so that doesn’t happen again?”

Even for Paul Fenneman, that was a stupid question, and Jodie waited to see how the Bomber would handle it.

He scratched the side of his head as if the question was so complicated he had to think it over. The Bomber didn’t have any patience with people he didn’t respect, and he had a habit of emphasizing his hillbilly roots in situations like this.

He propped one boot up on the footpeg of the Harley and looked thoughtful. “Well, Paul, what we’re gonna have to do is hang on to the ball. Now, not having played the game yourself, you might not know this, but every time we let the other team take the ball away from us, it means we don’t have it ourselves. And that ain’t no way to put points on the board.”

Jodie chuckled. She had to hand it to the Bomber. He’d gotten old Paul right in the numbers with that one.

Paul didn’t appreciate being made to look like a fool. “I hear Coach Raskin’s been real happy with the way Kevin Tucker’s been looking in practice. You’re going to be thirty-six soon, which makes you an old man in a young man’s game. Any worries Kevin’ll be taking over as starter?”

For a fraction of a second, the Bomber’s face stiffened up like a big old poker, then he shrugged. “Shoot, Paul, this ol’ boy ain’t ready for the grave yet.”

“If only I could find somebody like him,” Dr. Jane whispered. “He’d be perfect.”

Jodie glanced over and saw her studying the television. “What are you talking about?”