Page 67 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

LEARNING THE RULES

Alix

That Sunday was the most comfortable I’d been so far at a football game—it wasn’t actually snowing, raining, or blowing at gale force in Baltimore, despite the stadium’s domeless status, which so far had felt like teams daring winter to get in their way, and winter helpfully obliging.

It was also the least comfortable I’d been at a football game.

Was it my period? A little. The infusion had helped, but I wouldn’t say that this week had been my easiest ever at work, and I’d sure been glad to have that day off yesterday.

And can I just confess something? Much as I’d protested at Sebastian buying those first-class tickets for Ben and me—I’d only given in because Sebastian was right, it would have been stupid and counterproductive for Ben to ride up front by himself with nobody to talk to, less than a week after that race across a continent to get to his dying mom—it was sure more comfortable.

I’d brought one of Sebastian’s gel packs, and the minute I’d been allowed to, I’d reclined my seat, stuck that cold pack onto my abdomen, drunk my first cup of tea, started a movie, and almost instantly fallen asleep. Luxury.

Ben had watched two movies. He’d also eaten his entire meal. And then he’d eaten mine. They’d been, he’d informed me, “not bad, some beef thing. But really small. The ice cream was, like, tiny.”

So not so much my period, and not the weather.

Not even Sebastian, because I hadn’t seen him last night.

Which leaves, of course, the score. It was 21 to 20 in favor of the Ravens, who were about to punt the ball away.

Baltimore was backed all the way up to their ten-yard-line, which meant the Devils would get the ball back with good field position.

Great, right? It hadn’t even been a defensive slugfest this time, but a real honest-to-God football game, with touchdowns and everything, so you’d think we’d be in good shape.

We would have been, except that there were, let’s see, six seconds left in the game.

Almost all of the 71,000-strong sold-out crowd was on its feet, tasting that Super Bowl and probably booking their tickets to Vegas, dancing and singing some chant like “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh,” which was apparently their anthem.

Stupid anthem, if you asked me. Purple jerseys, purple jackets, purple hats, and a whole lot of singing.

Extremely annoying singing, I might add.

I wanted to stand up and yell, “Stop gloating!” Except that, I had to concede, if it had been the Devils ahead with six seconds left, I’d probably have been dancing and singing myself.

Not much excitement around me, though, because the families section was a silent, glum group.

Ben had his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, because I felt about the same.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t seem to register it.

Jennifer was sitting beside me again, but not even watching, because Nick was fussing to get down.

She was saying, “Almost time to go, baby,” in a resigned sort of way.

Dyma alone was leaning forward, her hands folded prayer-fashion under her chin, muttering, “Come on. Come on.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” I told her. “Oh, well. They’ve beat every expectation.” Carlton would be happy, because I was sure he’d bet on the Ravens. He’d say “I told you so,” too. I was going to have to work on my anger management skills.

Sebastian wouldn’t take any consolation at all from beating anybody’s expectations.

He’d made both his field goals, one from forty-eight yards, but I’d already figured out that he cared more about the team than about his stats.

He’d put Solange’s death on the back burner this week, it was clear, like, “I’ll deal with that once the season’s over.

” How did you come to terms with both those losses at once, though?

Sure, you could say people mattered more than any game and be right, but this loss was going to make the other one worse.

You always think that tragedy brings perspective, but in the moment? Tragedy mostly brings fragility.

“Stop jinxing them,” Dyma said fiercely.

“The game’s not over yet. Simmons will fair catch it, and there’ll be time for one more play.

” The guy was poised back there near the far sideline, every inch of his slim 5’9” frame practically quivering with intention, but “back there” was exactly the problem.

The Ravens punter was good, Dyma had informed me during a more optimistic and chatty moment in the game, which meant he’d be kicking it to, what?

The Devils’ 40? The Devils would have to get sixty yards down the field on one play, against a team who knew that play was the only thing standing between them and the Super Bowl.

My uterus gave a throb in sympathy, and I put my hand over it and thought, Back to the hotel and lie down.

You can think about it after you’ve rested, and figure out how to talk to Sebastian about it, how you can help.

And he’s a big boy. He's been through it all before.

That was the problem, though. He’d been through way too much, and I’d wanted this for him so badly .

Suck it up. The punter took his few steps, his leg swung, the ball flew, yes, a long, long way down the field, Simmons waved his hand in the air—fair catch, to leave all six seconds on the clock—and …

And Simmons fell down.

The ball was loose. Everybody fell on it, but it didn’t matter, because the clock had ticked down to zero.

It was over.

The Super Bowl would go on, but for the Devils, the postseason started now.

I was going to have to figure out how to be a much better girlfriend.

Sebastian

On the sidelines, men stood with their hands on top of their heads and watched. I stopped kicking into the net and turned to watch, too. And then it happened.

This was why you learned every one of the rules for your new sport, at least the ones that applied to you. There was a flag down on the field, none of the Ravens players was celebrating, and the referee was pointing down the field. Pointing our way.

Blankenship, the aggressive, lightning-fast Ravens gunner, hadn’t just got in Simmons’ face. He’d brushed against him on his way past, and Simmons, who’d signaled for a fair catch to leave those six precious seconds on the clock for that desperate Hail Mary, had slipped on the turf and gone down.

It wasn’t over after all.

I buckled my chin strap.

Alix

I said, “What’s happening? I don’t understand.” The whole thing had taken about ten seconds, but what whole thing?

Jennifer said, “I don’t know.” A buzz around us as the slow-motion replay unspooled once again on the JumboTron.

The defensive players rushing down the field to get to the return man, and Simmons slipping and going down.

Players diving on the ball, a yellow flag landing on the grass, and time running out.

Dyma said, “We get an untimed down.”

“A what?” I asked stupidly.

“An untimed down,” Ben said unexpectedly. “The game can’t end on a defensive penalty. The Devils get one more chance. And running into the returner when he’s signaled a fair catch is fair-catch interference, which is a fifteen-yard penalty.”

“How do you know?” Dyma asked. “I thought you were Canadian.”

“I have a lot of free time,” Ben said. “Also, the ref is signaling it right now.”

“So they’re on the forty-eight yard line,” Jennifer said. “The Ravens’ 48, I mean, not ours. And they have one more chance? That has to be a Hail Mary. Oh, boy.” She was jiggling both legs, and Nick had started to squirm and cry for real.

Dyma said, “Mom hates it when it’s a Hail Mary in a playoff game, because Harlan dropped one a few years ago in this exact same conference championship game, and they didn’t go to the Super Bowl. Interestingly ironic, but all’s forgiven if he catches it this time.”

Jennifer snapped over her son’s noise, “That pass was overthrown. Plus it should’ve been called for pass interference. ”

Dyma said, “Mom isn’t too rational on this subject.” Not as cool as she sounded, though, because she was twisting her scarf in her hands.

“Wait,” I said. “Wait.” The players were running onto the field, and it wasn’t Harlan. It wasn’t Owen, either. It was Sebastian.

“You’re kidding,” Jennifer said. “That would be, uh …”

“Sixty-five yards,” Ben said. “Except?—”

“Except he’s kicking from the tee,” I said. “Isn’t he? The ball’s set up there all … all alone. What the heck? No snap?”

“From the line of scrimmage,” Ben said. “It’s a thing.

A …” He paused, then snapped his fingers.

“A fair-catch kick. It’s worked once in, like, fifty years, but it cuts seven yards off the kicking distance, because it’s from the line.

Makes it fifty-eight yards from the tee, and he doesn’t have to deal with the snap and the hold or the defense trying to block it. He just has to kick it.”

“The word ‘just,’” Dyma said, “is doing a whole lot of work there. Oh, boy. How cool is he, Alix? I’m glad I don’t have to live with this if I miss.”

“He isn’t going to miss,” Ben said. “He does what he has to do. He told me.”

I couldn’t answer. I was too focused on breathing.

Sebastian

Center my body, center my mind. Three deliberate steps back and two to the left, exactly like always. Three running steps forward, and hit the ball where I needed to. Feel the solidity of the contact, watch the ball sail up, reach the top of its arc, and head down again.

I normally knew. I normally knew to the inch. This time, though …

It felt like thirty seconds. I was just standing there. Standing and watching. Not thinking, not praying. Watching, everything in me suspended.

The ball hit the right upright.

I stopped breathing. So had everybody else, apparently, because I could hear that “doink” like a bell ringing.

The ball bounced left, and I froze.

It went through.

I unbuckled my chin strap, my knees possibly a little wobbly, and did my best to breathe as men surrounded me, hands pummeling my back. One of them was Simmons, and I grabbed him and yelled, “Hey, man. Hey. We did it! We said we could, and we did. Belief, man. Belief.”

His grin took up half of his twenty-three-year-old face. I thumped him on the back, laughed, and said, “Do not mess with special teams. Do not mess with special teams.”

A group of us in a circle now, chanting, “Special teams. Special teams. Special teams.” The crowd of players growing, until it was offense, defense, and all the rest of us, jumping and laughing like fools.

If there’d been snow, you bet we’d have been making those angels.

There was Owen grinning out of his whole bearded face, and Harlan flashing his million-dollar smile, slapping backs, and shouting over the noise, “No stars, baby. No stars. Just a bunch of Devils, and you better look out, because we’re coming for you. ”

Emotion. Elation. Belonging. It was something.

I felt it, you bet I did, but I was still thinking, Work on those long ones. That should’ve been cleaner.

Also, more meditation.