Page 146 of Hell Bent

I walked over there. I’m not sure I felt my feet at all.

Bob put out his hand, and I shook it, then dropped it. He looked me in the eye, unsmiling, and said, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Tough game.” Why was he here? Was this normal?

He inclined his head toward the door. Oh. Yeah, that would make more sense. Hallway.

Once we were out there, he said, “You told me Colt Hammersmith couldn’t kick from fifty-three.”

“Not today, anyway,” I said.

“Yeah.” He didn’t look rueful, or whatever. He was too hardheaded for that. “You’re a free agent now.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m man enough to own up when I make a mistake,” he said.

“Kinda hard to avoid it this time, I expect,” I said. “Things change. That’s sports.”

“Yeah,” he said again. “You still with Brian Longfellow?”

“No. Vince Haliburton.”

He said, “Oh.” Which clearly meant,Shark.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why I went with him.”

“We’ll be in touch, then,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, and he nodded, turned, and walked away.

Life was strange. And terrible. And, possibly, wonderful.

Living in three dimensions was a whole new experience. So I went back into the locker room and kept on doing it.

At ten-fifteen the next morning,I wasn’t in Disneyland, and I also wasn’t doing whatever other glamorous thing people imagine NFL players do after they win the Super Bowl. I was standing at baggage claim in the Portland Airport, my hands in my pockets and a Devils cap on my head, watching travelers straggle through. Some of them looked pretty rough. Those would be the ones from the Vegas flight. They’d done some celebrating.

“Excuse me.” Something was tugging at my sleeve. It was a kid. A girl of about seven, wearing a red backpack and pulling a suitcase on wheels. When I turned, she sort of lunged at me, and the suitcase banged into my leg.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” That was a woman, presumably the mom, who grabbed the suitcase and said, “What are you doing, Chelsea? You ran right into the man! Tell him you’re sorry.”

“Mom,” the girl said, “it’s Sebastian Robillard!” She said it more like “Thebathtian,” because she was missing some teeth.

“No, it isn’t,” her mother said. “Come on. Grandpa’s already at the curb.”

“Yeth, it ith,” Chelsea insisted, and stared at me. It was a penetrating stare. Brown eyes, brown hair, straight-across bangs. “I watched an interview with you. I watchedthreeinterviews with you, actually. One before, and two after.”

“Sebastian Robillard isn’t standing around baggage claim the morning after the Super Bowl,” her mother said. “He’sflying to the South of France, or maybe sleeping it off.” Insulting, I call that.

The girl didn’t answer, just looked at me. I said, “Well, yeah, I’m him. Hi. Did you go to the game?”

Now,she squinted. Of course she did. “Maybe you’re not,” she said. “I think he’s taller.”

Again with the height. What did you say? “No, I really am”?

I was saved from deciding, because the voice I wanted to hear was saying, “Sebastian. What theheck?”And Alix was rushing forward, dropping her suitcase, throwing her arms around my neck, and kissing me. Laughing, then holding my face in her palms.

I didn’t answer. I just kissed her, then got my arms around her better and twirled her while she laughed and looked beautiful and happy and like a—well, like a princess. A princess in blue jeans.