Page 28 of Hell Bent

I blinked. This was not what I’d expected. I was workingout what to say when he said, “It’ll be down-home. Him and Owen Johnson—Devils center—and some family, that’s all.”

“Christmas dinner withthreeNFL players will be down-home. Probably in some mansion.”

“Absolutely down-home, though you may be right about the mansion. If anybody gets snobby at you, you’ve got two choices. Tell them about the princess thing, or?—”

“I am not telling them about the princess thing, and you’d better not either. Absolutely not. I am not pathetically trying to make my electrician self more acceptable by saying I’m a princess. Anersatzprincess. Just no. Justhellno.”

“Or,” he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken, “you can tell me, ‘Sebastian, honey, I’ve had about enough of this,’ and I can whisk you off to … wherever’s open on Christmas night. It won’t even be for that long. The team has practice, so we probably won’t head over there until five or so. But if you hate it, we’ll go have a hamburger. I promise. Hand on heart.”

“I have no clothes. I’m also never going to call you ‘honey.’” I was weakening. I could feel it.

“Jeans and a hoodie,” he said. “It’s three guys at the end of a couple of very long work days, at least one and a half of them banged up and hurting, having a nice dinner with their friends and family and laughing some, possibly drinking a little wine, because it’s Christmas and Tuesday’s their day off. And honestly? I’m a little nervous about it myself. I just got here, remember? I don’t know anybody. Come with me and hold my hand.”

“Are you the one who’s going to be banged up and hurting?”

“Nope. If I even get my pants dirty, I did something wrong. I’ll be the cleanest guy on the field. Watch and see.”

“I don’t have network TV,” I said, “but there’s probably an app. I also know nothing about football, so I won’t even know whether you did well.”

“Trust me, you’ll know. It’ll be obvious. So that works for you?”

“How can I resist?” I said.

“The words we love to hear,” he said. “Text me your address, and I’ll come get you. Sometime around five, like I said. I’ll text you when I head out.”

“Maybe I should drive in. Meet you there. I live way far out.”

“Nope. This is a date. Meet me at … at some store if it makes you feel safer. Gas station. Whatever. But I want a date. I promise to open the car door for you and everything.”

“In my Target tennis shoes.”

“In your tennis shoes. You don’t have to dress up. You’re already a princess, remember? And from what I’ve seen, you’ve got plenty of confidence. You’ll carry it off.”

12

DEFINITELY NOT THE REASON

Alix

Did I put the whole thing resolutely out of my mind after that call, and focus on … whatever there is to focus on when you’re in rebuilding mode, know nobody, and live in a travel trailer outside of a strange city?

No, I did not. Maybe you would have, but not if you’d seen the way Sebastian grinned, or the way his amber eyes lit up when he did. Lupine, that was the word, because I’d looked it up. Wolflike, all strength and sinew and watchfulness. And then there was the way he made me laugh.

All right, those weren’t the whole reason. The other part was that I watched his game on Sunday while I did my meal prep for the week, which mainly involved cooking a pot of turkey chili on one burner and a pot of beef stew on the other, because a gourmet cook I was not.

See, I waswatching,but as background. Background was fine.

I couldn’t figure out at first where he was. He’d said he wasn’t a star, but if you weren’t on the offenseorthe defense … would his uniform stay clean because he wouldn’t actually beon the field, or what? I saw Harlan Kristiansen, but then, he was obvious, making two spectacular catches in the first quarter, the second of which he took at the twenty-yard line. Leaping high, his gloved hands plucking the ball out of the air like it was easy, then coming down and somehow stepping and swiveling and spinning all the way around, shedding tacklers like he was greased before seeming to find another gear and racing down the sideline like a greyhound. Somebody on the other team tried to catch up with him, but there was no hope, and then he was across the goal line, trotting to a stop, and flicking the ball to an official as if he didn’t even need to celebrate. My hand stilled on my knife and I was yelling, then was embarrassed to be doing it. I wasn’t even a football fan!

I went back to chopping during the replay, determined not to get my adrenaline pumping like that again, and then my hand had stilled again, because somebody else was loping onto the field down there, buckling his chin strap. Moving with a kind of easy grace that reminded me of …

Well, of a wolf. And the name on his back was Robillard.

He wasn’t out there long. He kicked the extra point and ran off again, and I tried to figure out why my heart was beating so fast. Because he was a professional athlete? I sure hoped not. I didn’t judge by money, and I didn’t judge by appearances.

At least not solely.

Usually.