Page 42 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

RETURN OF THE HERO

Sebastian

I was surprised how hard it was to finish the game and not hear from Alix.

She’d watched, what, two of my games before this?

How had hearing from her become any kind of expectation?

I’d had a text from Ben as soon as I’d had a chance to look—it had been a bunch of exclamation points and a fire emoji, which had made me laugh—but it had been hours, and I hadn’t heard from Alix.

I knew she’d had to work, but surely she’d have asked whether we’d won. Surely she’d?—

I was on the bus again. Not by myself for once, because Simmons was beside me.

Not saying anything, just listening to his music, his hands drumming on the seatback as a knee jiggled along with them, but I was happy to have him there.

Somehow, I couldn’t stop smiling. It had been one of the most frustrating games of my short NFL career, and still, I was smiling.

And not because of me. Because of him. Because of Owen.

Because of Harlan. Because of our new young QB, Antonio Briscoe, who, like the others, had come through when the team needed him.

And most of all, because of our much-maligned defense, which had come of age or come together or whatever other cliché you wanted to attach to it, right in the nick of time.

Because we were playing again next week, and we’d all be on the same page for it.

Because this team was clicking, and I was part of it.

My phone dinged, and I had it out of my pocket fast.

That was amazing, Alix had written. Not just you. All of you. But especially you. Which was more emotional and less analytical than usual, but it worked for me.

It was good, I typed back. How are you? Get something to eat? Ben buy that new Lamborghini yet?

Why are men so obsessed with cars? she asked. We had pizza. I succumbed. Special occasion. When does your plane get in?

I wasn’t sure, so I tapped the player in front of me—Owen, who’d been wearing a grin like wearing a sweater ever since the game—and asked him, because he somehow always knew.

“Eleven-thirty our time,” he said. “Around there.”

I texted that to Alix and added, Don’t wait up.

Long day for you. I’d wondered whether the hemophilia thing made her more tired, especially doing that hard job, which had to involve bruising and pain, didn’t it?

I’d seen a couple of bruises on the outside of her right thigh the other night, and they hadn’t been small.

Asking probably counted as fussing, so I hadn’t.

but I’d wanted to. And had reminded myself, Keep it gentle, dude.

She texted back, I keep telling myself I love you for you. It’s so hard when you go and be a hero like that.

A jolt like somebody’d caught me by a hook around the midsection, and I thought, Figure of speech, not sure if what I was feeling was panic or pleasure. Of course, I was pretty emotional right now.

I had to think about this one. I settled on, I’ll do my best to keep doing it, then.

Then I put the phone away and just freaking enjoyed the idea that she’d be there when I got home.

That I’d get to hold her and kiss her and do all the things to her that I’d been waiting to do for so long.

It was like waiting for Christmas, though.

I wanted it to happen now. We’d won the game, and I wanted Alix now.

Was this even normal?

Four hours later, waking from the doze I’d finally fallen into to find a quiet, dark plane full of teammates doing the same, the massive post-game dinner of lean meats and complex carbohydrates and vegetables having been consumed.

Nothing like burgers and fries and a whole lot like chicken and quinoa, to Ben’s disgust when he’d learned what we actually ate.

Now it was all open mouths, closed eyes, and headphones, the occasional heavy snore, and then the plane beginning its descent as players moved stiffening, sore bodies, stretched tired arms overhead.

A quiet joke, a weary laugh, the plane’s wheels touching down, the engines roaring, and we were taxiing.

Down the steps, hoping my car would be at the curb for me, because I wanted to go home.

I never wanted to go home, or not exactly that.

I was never eager to go home. I accepted.

I adapted. I didn’t need, but I needed now.

Ben, because he was my responsibility. Lexi.

And, of course, Alix. We’d been given the day off tomorrow, with the win after the short week.

A luxury, because I had Tuesday off, too, but I needed to take Ben to Vancouver again then. I could?—

Men grabbing duffels around me, not talking much anymore, just wanting to get home. And my phone ringing in my pocket.

I pulled out the phone, and Owen said beside me, “One benefit of not having her come to the game—you don’t have to wait for her to get home from it.”

I didn’t answer, because I was thumbing the phone, saying, “Hey.” Feeling the smile grow despite my fatigue.

Alix’s voice. “Where the heck do you actually come in? I just realized I don’t know.”

“Oh. Uh … charter terminal. You can’t see it on any … any app, or whatever. But we’re here.” I rubbed my forehead, wishing I sounded less groggy.

“Oh, shoot,” she said, and somehow, I was smiling.

“Alix,” I said. “What did you do?”

“I came, OK?” she burst out. “And now I’m in the wrong place and feeling really stupid.”

I was laughing. “Don’t feel stupid. Head over to baggage claim, and I’ll swing around to the curb and get you. I’ll text you when I’m there so you don’t have to wait in the cold.”

“Which would be great,” she said, “if I were the one who’d just won a football game and flown across the country so you could fling yourself into my arms, but I’m not.”

“Good thing,” I said. “I kinda hate the thought of you getting tackled.”

“Ha,” she said. “You do not, not if you’re the one doing it.

” Which was probably true, except for that bruising.

She added, “This makes my big gesture pretty silly. I was supposed to be running to you in front of your teammates, because you saved the day. That’s the way this story goes.

Have you seen a single romantic movie? Return of the hero? This way is wrong.”

“And you a princess, too,” I said. “We’re definitely screwing up our romantic movie.” I could not stop smiling.

Hanging up, then out on the curb, and, yes, my practical, economical, hybrid-SUV ugly duckling amongst the swans.

I’d better not let Ben see this lineup, or he’d be more convinced than ever that I was footballing all wrong.

A couple of bills for the valet, and I was about to swing in when Harlan jogged over and said, “Jennifer and I are doing the Multnomah Whiskey Library tomorrow night with some friends. Actual adult entertainment, because we can get a little family-intensive at my place, and Jennifer’s ended up with almost all of it lately.

Owen’s coming, but no Dyma. Back at school.

Joke goes here. Want to bring Alix along? ”

“Uh—the what?” I needed to get out of here. I needed to?—

“It’s a place,” he said.

“I got that,” I said. “It’s a library. A whiskey library. OK, that’s odd, but?—”

“It’s cozy,” Harlan said. “And private. Great food, and one of the only places you can go here and not be hassled.”

“Maybe where you can go,” I said. “I don’t tend to be hassled. And I’m not sure about?—”

“Once everybody sees that kick,” he said, “you will be, because that was the stuff of legend. Seven o’clock. And don’t worry. You don’t have to drink whiskey if you don’t want to.”

Alix

I wasn’t in the baggage-claim area like Sebastian had said. I was on the curb instead, shifting from one foot to the other in the cold, my arms wrapped around my middle, holding my inadequate long sweater in place. Hardly anybody out here this late, and I?—

He pulled up. I was heading across the sidewalk to him, but he was out his door, and I was getting to do what I’d come for.

To run to him, throw my arms around him, have him pick me up and twirl me, both of us laughing.

And then to kiss him. My hand in his hair, my tongue in his mouth, and he was falling back against the car, one hand in my hair and the other on my lower back, pulling me in tight against his body, kissing me better.

A voice behind us, saying, “No parking or standing.” I turned, Sebastian’s arm still around me, and saw a cop. Who was not smiling.

Sebastian said, “Yeah. We’re going.” And grinned.

The cop peered at him. “Hang on. The Devils just got back, didn’t they? Aren’t you Robi?—”

“Who?” Sebastian said. “No. Just picking up my girlfriend.” Opening the passenger door, then closing it behind me, running around to the driver’s side, and taking off. I was laughing, so was he, and I was saying, “He knew who you were. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t know how he even recognized me,” Sebastian said, “other than the Devils hat, but cops have a good memory for faces.” I had my hand on his jeans-clad thigh, and he took one hand off the wheel, set it on top of mine, and squeezed. “Can’t believe you came.”

I said, “Wait. You don’t know?”

“What don’t I know?” A quick glance at me, then back at the road, getting on the freeway.

“Sebastian.” I was laughing again. “The snow angels? You don’t know that was on TV? And an interview with you without your helmet, looking so serious and sexy and wolflike? You’re famous! I love that you did that. And that half the team did it with you. The announcers said?—”

He groaned, and I said, “What?”

“Most of them don’t say anything you want to hear,” he said. “But go ahead and tell me. What did they say? And wolflike? What?”

“Oh, nothing.” I still wanted to laugh. And run.

And twirl. “Just that the Devils have a new spirit of belief, that’s all.

That they’re fostering a new culture of inclusion and brotherhood, and that game was a perfect example of it.

That it wasn’t just the veterans stepping up, it was the newest players, too.

Like, for example, you. Playing unselfishly, sacrificing for each other, celebrating together.

‘The team focusing on what’s right for the players,’ that one guy said, the loud, bald one, ‘and the players focusing on each other. That’s how a team’s supposed to be, but it usually ain’t like that at all.

Tell ’em there’s no divas allowed, though, give everybody a voice, and—boom!

We all saw what happened.’ And then the other guy said, ‘If they keep playing like this, we’ll be seeing studies done on that team culture.

There’s nothing like a united locker room, Terry.

’ So is that what did it? Your united locker room? Because how did you win?”

“I don’t know,” he said, but he was smiling. “I don’t think it’s all that mysterious. We had a good day, that’s all. Everything came together. Got us believing. Sometimes, you know?—”

“What?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“It’s weird,” he said, “but sometimes, when you’re down on the scoreboard or you lose a key player to injury, the rest of the team lifts.

If they have the … the DNA for that. Soccer, football, whatever.

Playing in the snow like that, when we’d been written off by half the fans, when we could tell the Bills might be looking past this game to the next one—well, it’s always a bad idea to put a game in the W column before you’ve played it. You lose your edge.”

“And you always have an edge,” I said.

“If you mean that I don’t expect much,” he said, “and play every game like it could be my last, you’re probably right.”

I said, “Pull over. Oh—I mean, exit. Exit the freeway.”

“We’re fifteen minutes from home,” he pointed out. “Wait. Are you sick? Are you?—”

I groaned and held my head. “No. No, I’m not sick. Would you just exit? ”

“Uh … sure.” He was still confused, but he was also starting to smile. He was exiting, too. “To where?”

I was checking my phone. “Take a right up here on Northeast 72 nd .”

“You realize it’s after midnight,” he said as he did it. “Are we scoring some cocaine? Probably not my best move, future-employment-wise. Keep going, or what?”

“Keep going,” I said.

“It’s a golf course,” he said. “I realize my education has been lacking in this area, but I tend to associate this kind of thing with back alleys. Not so much golf courses.”

“Pull over,” I said. “There, on the side of the road. Park there.”