In a moment of cosmic awareness, they stared into each other's eyes. Magda could see the stress in his expression and knew more than a bruised knee was bothering him.

"This is decent of you," Callahan said, settling into the seat with his flight bag between them. "I didn't give you much of an interview."

"So what?" Magda shrugged. "You're obviously not in very good spirits. What time is your appointment this morning?"

"When I get there," he said, looking ahead into the darkness.

"How soon will you know if you can play next week against the Rams?" she asked, wondering if he realized she was interviewing him, committing his responses to memory.

"Sooner than I want to," he said crisply.

"On the spot?"

Callahan laughed, a touch of irony in his tone. "Aren't we all?"

Magda looked at him sharply, surprised by his wit at this hour of the night, especially considering the pain he was in.

He was handsome, probably as spoiled as every other overpaid professional athlete she'd met since being assigned to the Sports Department. He wasn't quite as imposing without the added height of cleats and helmet, the breadth of padding and the skin-tight gold pants which left little to the imagination. There was a firm set to his jaw, accenting the deep cleft of his chin. In the occasional flash of oncoming headlights, his green eyes looked distant and veiled.