Page 112 of Hell Bent

It took me long seconds to realize that the Devils were only at their own 30-yard line, there were barely three minutes left in the game, and that swirling wind was still blowing.

I can’t remember much of what happened next, because I watched it between my fingers. Short runs to the sideline. Short passes ditto. Yard by yard, up the field. Another of those pushes on fourth down that you didn’t believe could work until you watched the quarterback follow Owen’s broad back one more time. Second by second, minute by minute, a first down and then another one.

And then … stalemate.

Another fourth down, but this one was fourth and eight, with the Devils at the Steelers’ 28-yard line with thirteen seconds to go in the game. The Devils only needed threepoints, but could even Sebastian make that kick in this gusting, swirling wind? What was that, forty-five yards? I asked, “What do they do now?”

“Throw it to Harlan in the end zone,” Jennifer said.

“The Hail Mary works one to two percent of the time,” Dyma said.

“Not with Harlan receiving, it doesn’t,” Jennifer snapped.

“Field goal,” Ben said. “Sebastian can make it. He’ll do it.”

Ben was right, because Sebastian was trotting out again, buckling his chin strap, his body language the same as always. Cool. Confident. In control.

Win or lose,I thought, my gloved hands clenching.I’m behind you win or lose.How could he handle the pressure, though?

Because he can,I answered myself.Because he’s exceptional. That’s why you love him.

Win or lose.

Sebastian

I nodded to the long snapper, Calvin Purdy, and he nodded back. I exchanged a glance with my holder, Josh Turnbull.Let’s do it,I told them in my mind, and knew that every other man out here was telling me the same thing, and so was every man on the sidelines. Offense, defense, special teams. All Devils, all the time.

A deep breath in, and let it out. Three steps back and two to the left, the same way every time. The long snap, shot like a bullet into Turnbull’s waiting hands. My legs moving the same way they always did. And my foot meeting nothing.

Turnbull standing before I’d even taken my first step, pivoting. His arm going back even as the Steelers’ arms went up to block the kick. And Turnbull, who’d played QB for twoyears in college, sailing that ball right over their heads and hitting Forrest Jones in the hands.

In the end zone.

The referee’s arms going up. Touchdown.

I sank to my knees. I breathed hard. I told somebody, somewhere,Thank you.Then stood up to thump Turnbull and Jones on the back and join the jumping, shouting men in white. Ghosts on the snowy field, unheralded, unregarded.

Champions.

This was ateam.

I was twenty-five hundred miles from Portland, and I was home.

44

STEP UP

Sebastian

I was naked, pulling on my underwear, when I heard the phone ring. I grabbed it, because it had to be Alix. Not texting. Calling.

Oh. Not Alix. The screen saidDebra Matson.The RN in charge of Solange’s hospice care, whom I’d spoken to precisely twice.

The noise of dozens of laughing, talking men seemed to recede around me, and I put a hand over my free ear and shouted, “Hello?”

“Is this Sebastian Robillard?” the voice asked.

“Yeah, it’s me. Debra, right?” I moved into the showers, because that was the quietest spot in here. “What’s going on?”