Page 29 of Hell Bent

Except there was that wolf thing.

Another extra point in the second quarter and two in the third, and I saw what he’d meant. He didn’t get dirty, he was out there for seconds, and all he did was score that one point at a time.

Is that shallow of me? Don’t answer that.

Then something changed.

The Devils were down by three, barely across the 50-yard line, with two minutes to play. Not huddling up now, but the quarterback yelling instructions as they ran down the field, got set fast, and snapped the ball for the next play. Two running plays that went almost nowhere, a short pass and catch that got them five more yards, and it was third down and four yards to go. The announcers were saying something about a slant route and another short pass, but instead, the ball was sailing through the air. Too high, surely. Toohigh.Harlan Kristiansen had run farther down the field, but now he came back, running the same way he had earlier, like he was part cheetah, then turning and jumping impossibly high, his body bent backward, completely exposed, almost at the sideline.

The ball sailed out of bounds two feet over his reaching hands.

“Oh,” I exhaled aloud. Fourth down and four yards to go, and they were only at the 40. What did you do now, with the game that close? Did you throw a really long pass and hope, or what?

Wait.

Players sprinting off the field, players sprinting on, and that had to be Sebastian. They were all dressed the same: white jersey with the number in red and black, black pants with a red slash, black helmet. But only one of them moved like Sebastian.

It was so fast. Seconds. Before I could blink, the ball was snapped, the holder was spinning it around, and Sebastian was running, planting his foot, one arm in the air like a rodeo rider, and swinging his leg. All completely seamless, like a ballet, his upper body bent forward, his head down.

How could he even see where it was going? How could he even aim? I was thinking it, and then I wasn’t, because I waswatching the ball. Up, up, up, then beginning to fall again. Sebastian wasn’t looking, but I was.

It was going to be short. It was going to …

It cleared the bar.

The crowd didn’t erupt or anything like that, because they didn’t want the Devils to win. But I did. The announcer was saying, as Sebastian and the rest ran off the field, “And Robillard shows why the Devils picked him up. Ten days on the team, and he’s already put eighteen points on the board. That one was from fifty-seven yards, and it’s put the Devils into overtime.”

“He makes it look easy, Dan, doesn’t he?” the other guy said. “Eleven years in major-league soccer without making much of a mark, then comes to the NFL and, boom, that leg’s worth something.”

“It’s all about finding your sport,” the other guy said.

So what happened in the game? The Devils lost in overtime, that’s what. The Ravens went out there and scored a field goal, the Devils didn’t score at all, and it was over. The camera had shown Sebastian on the sidelines at the end there, kicking into a net, but you couldn’t kick a field goal from your own 50-yard-line, I guessed, because they went for a crazy long pass instead into the back of the end zone, Harlan Kristiansen went up for it, and it sailed two feet over his outstretched hands. Again.

Sebastian didn’t look upset running off, but none of them did. I wondered how you did that: lost, flew across the country, got home in the middle of the night, and were somehow at work the next morning. On Christmas Day.

I was a hard worker. I’d been told it. I knew it. But I didn’t have to lose, have people talking on TV about what was wrong with me the way they were doing right now, and then gear up to work even harder and prove them wrong.

I’m telling you all that to possibly explain why I drove intoPortland for some more grocery shopping that afternoon, telling myself I wanted shaved brussels sprouts and broccolini and pesto, which the little store in Cascade Locks definitely did not stock, and that Trader Joe’s had sweet potato gnocchi, too. Oh, and I also needed to buy a really good bottle of wine if I was going to this Christmas thing. Somehow, though, after I collected all that and threw it into the back seat, the truck steered itself to Nordstrom, the store where I’d bought the sparkly silver cocktail dress Sebastian had liked.

You’ll look like you’re trying too hard,half of me said.

What, compared to not trying at all?the other half answered, and, yes, I was out of the truck and headed through Christmas-Eve madness, two hours from closing time. But I couldn’t actually wear a hoodie to Christmas dinner, or my Target tennis shoes, could I? Marginal respectability, that was what I was going for. It had nothing to do with wanting a guy because he’d kicked a ball on TV, especially not when he’d apparently found me attractive in a hard hat and smeared with mud. I couldn’t possibly be more superficial than a man. I didn’t even want to be a princess!

Lying to yourself is never pretty.

Sebastian

I was on top of a box in the gym the next morning when Kristiansen sauntered by. I jumped down, and he said, “That’s forty inches.”

“Yep,” I said. “When they make box jumps an Olympic sport, I’ll be all set.”

He grinned, and I grinned back, liking him. He said, “Jennifer told me to tell you that you don’t need to bring anything to dinner.”

“Good thing,” I said, “since it’s going to be about four o’clock before we get out of here. On Christmas.”

“That’s what I said. Said, ‘How would he do that anyway, when he got home at two in the morning?’ And she said, ‘He could be worried about it, though.’ Were you worried about it?”

“No.”