Page 70 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

I stopped running and laughed out loud. “That’s awesome.

That’s great. Come on. Bring it in.” I gave her a hug in the near-darkness.

“I’m proud of you. You’ve said that to me, and I don’t think I’ve said it back.

I don’t know why, because it’s true. And I’m not surprised.

Other than that you called him out before. ”

“Yeah,” she said, “but you know—it’s the trades, not the diplomatic corps. I thought I might not get away with it, being a woman, but I think it actually helped.”

“Again,” I said, “not surprised. You’re tough. One of the things I like best about you. Who decides this?”

“The general construction manager. I talked to him, too, on Wednesday. They offered me the job yesterday. But?—"

“But? Don’t tell me you’re losing your confidence.”

“No, I can do it. The construction manager liked that I’ve got all that coursework.

Excellent computer skills, all that. See, electricians don’t always have those skills.

He said something about project management, too.

That’s more estimating and scheduling, things like that.

But I keep thinking …” She stopped again.

“What?” I prodded. “I’m leaving tomorrow. If we’re going to have this conversation, you need to move it along.”

“Geez, way to be supportive.” But she was laughing.

“Let’s run, so I can keep my thoughts straight.

” She set off again, ponytail bouncing, and I thought how rare it was to find a woman who thought better while running.

After a minute, she said, “First, though—how did I not know that you were selected for the Pro Bowl?”

“Because it doesn’t mean that much.”

“Hey. I’ve heard of it. It means something. It’s a big deal. Carlton couldn’t believe I didn’t know. I’m sure he now suspects that our so-called relationship is only in my twisted mind. It’s entirely possible I’m a stalker.”

“It’s a fan poll,” I said. “The All-Pro team is the one that counts. That’s chosen by the sportswriters.”

“And you didn’t make that?” she asked, outraged. “What are they, blind?”

I smiled. “Nah. The team was chosen before the postseason. I’ve done pretty well here lately, but?—”

“Pretty well? Pretty well? You’ve dominated. You know you have. You haven’t missed a kick in the postseason. How many other kickers can say that?”

I sighed and kept my feet moving. This felt good, stretching me out before getting on that plane.

“Anyway,” I explained, “you don’t play in the Pro Bowl if you’re playing in the Super Bowl.

The game happens tomorrow, and I’ll be a little busy.

Maybe I should go out with this Carlton guy instead, though, since he follows my career so closely and is so impressed by me. Is he cute?”

“Not so much. Oldest guy on my team. Keeps betting against the Devils and being disappointed when you win.” I laughed, and she said, “You should have seen how he looked when I didn’t know.

He does this …” She turned to me and did some exaggerated slow blinking.

“Like, ‘I can’t believe what an idiot you are.’” I laughed again, and she said, “Next time, tell me, OK?”

“OK,” I said. “But it’s really not about that. About individual awards. I want to make my kicks when it counts, that’s all. Also, I don’t make extra money for getting chosen, so …”

“Oh, well, then I agree, it’s a garbage award.” She was laughing too, though.

“As we’ve disposed of that,” I said, “tell me about the new job.”

“It’s more money.” She said it slowly. Thoughtfully. “More responsibility. A move up the ladder. A great chance, and a vote of confidence that Howard picked me even though I’m a woman.”

“But.”

“But.” She didn’t slow down one bit, but kept motoring along. Uphill again. There was a reason her thighs were so good. “It’d be physically easier, which is good, because honestly?”

I waited, but she’d stopped talking. “Because honestly,” I said, “this job is hard on your body.”

“Yes. I hate to admit it, but not admitting it is stupid. I’ve proved I can do it.

I don’t need to keep doing it. But that’s not all.

The new job would be at least as many hours as now, and—and I don’t know, I just feel my life slipping away.

My grandmother wants me to go to Dresden with her, to help her look for that tiara.

She’s in her nineties. How can I put that off?

And how would I tell her no? I don’t want to tell her no. ”

“So you’ve been giving it some thought,” I prompted.

“All right,” she said, “I’m going to put it out there. I was glad to be self-sufficient. I’m still glad to know I can be. But then there’s Lexi, and Ben. And, obviously, you.”

“Ah.” I was smiling like crazy. “Me.”

“I want to believe in radical impermanence,” she burst out. “Because I know it’s true. I want radical acceptance, too. I do.”

“Ben,” I said.

“Yes, Ben told me, and I looked it up. I get it, all right? Obviously, things change. Even if a person never does anything wrong, is there for you every single day, people die. Mothers die. Fathers die. Beloved spouses die, and I’m not even mentioning divorce.

You have kids and love them like crazy, and best case?

They grow up and make their own lives. But I want to …

I have to believe in something anyway. I want to trust in something.

I don’t want to build my life around you, because for one thing, that’s too much pressure on you, li ke you’d be ruining my life if we broke up, but I want to believe we have something here. Or I want to try.”

I said, “Stop.”

She did, but she didn’t look at me. She crouched down instead and patted Lexi, who was happily panting, feathery tail waving. A dog who’d found her people.

I said, “I want to believe we have something, too. It’s a little scary, because I haven’t believed in much.”

She stood up, put her hands on my forearms, looked up into my face, and said, “I know that. I get that. And I feel so …” She stopped, waved a helpless hand. “I am bad at having serious conversations. I feel so lucky that I get to meet you now. That I know you now. Do you think maybe we can …”

More hesitation, which was nothing like Alix. I said, “I think we can do just about anything. Look what we’ve already done.”

“Right,” she said. “Then I’m going to stop running, and stop running away, too, and say it.

I want to go back to school for electrical engineering.

It’s a good two and half years more school, when I could get my Statistics degree in two more quarters at Stanford, and you could think that’s nuts.

But I’m good at this stuff, and it’s what I’ve wanted to do.

I don’t want to recommend investments to rich people, even though I was pretty good at it.

I want to make something. I want to build something, or at least help.

And I don’t want to work sixty hours a week.

I can work hard. I like to work hard, but I want a life, too.

But I wanted to tell you that in the right way. ”

“What’s the right way?” I asked. “It’s not a mystery, is it? We’re going out. We want to keep going out, because it’s good. What doesn’t work about that?”

She started talking faster. “I want you to know that I’m not pressuring you.

Not suggesting that this has anything to do with you.

Who knows? You could end up with another team.

We could end up not working out. I get that.

Radical impermanence. I get it. But I want to do this.

I want to go to school. I want to spend time with my grandmother, and I want to spend time with you while I have you.

Otherwise, what do I have? You’re finally around more, and I can’t ever see you?

And on twenty-five percent of my days off, I’m lying down with an ice pack or in the ER?

No. I want a life. But I don’t want you to misinterpret it or think I’m asking anything of you.

I can afford to go to school. I can afford to keep my trailer.

I can afford everything. I want to make that clear.

But I still wanted to talk with you about it. I wanted you to know.”