Page 50 of Hell Bent

“How far is it?” Ben asked.

I checked. “A little over three and a half miles.”

“Three and a halfmiles?Are you nuts?”

“It’ll be faster than waiting for an Uber, and warmer, too, I guarantee. Let’s walk. Or even better—let’s run.” My momhadsent me two boxes of clothes, and I had my running shoes at last. Also, I was keyed up from watching Sebastian, especially since he’d been right there. I could have had a better view on the big screen, but I’d wanted to watch his real self. And to watch him being patted on the back and thumped on top of the helmet after that field goal, too. I didn’t know enough about football to judge anything else or even to figure out what was going on without an announcer telling me, but the Devils had won the game, and Sebastian had made the kick. That was a good enough takeaway, I hoped.

Oh, whoops. Ben. I started jogging, and after a second, he did too. I said, “They probably don’t play American football in Canada.”

“Duh,” he said.

“Excuse me?” I put out a hand to stop him before a car sped by, just as a cop put up his own hand to stop traffic, and we veered around to the edge of the streaming crowd of pedestrians and kept running.

“Well, people here don’t know anything about Canada,” Ben said, “and it bugs me. I mean, we’re right there across the border, andweknow about the States.”

“You have a point,” I said. “So—no NFL football?”

“People watch it. And they play gridiron in high school some. But there’s no pro football.”

I wanted to say,Wasn’t that what I meant?But I didn’t, because I remembered enough about being fourteen to know that argument was fruitless. I said instead, “What sport do you play? You’re a pretty good runner. Got good wind.”

He ducked his head, which I thought was pleasure, and said, “Hockey. Some. But I’m not on the school team or anything. I’m not very good.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “Why not, do you think?”

He shrugged. “I was getting a little better, but then—” He stopped.

“Oh,” I said. “Your mom got sick.”

“I didn’t care about stopping,” he said.

“Mm. So what are your best athletic skills, would you say?”

He considered that, because most peopledolike to think and talk about themselves. He said, “Running, I guess. I’m not that …” and tailed off.

“Not that what?” I prompted. Another shrug, and I said, “Hey. I’m nobody, just some woman you met today. No reason you have to tell me. No reason you can’t tell me, either.”

“I’m not aggressive enough.” It was muttered, but I heard it.

“Ah,” I said. “For hockey.”

“For hockey, and soccer, and everything else.”

“Do you want to be more aggressive?” I asked.

“I’ve tried to be, all right?” It burst out of him. “Mom never wanted me to play hockey or football or even socceranyway, because of concussions, but hockey’s, like, the sport! And Iwantto play it!”

“Oh,” I said. “Uh … track and field?”

“Lame. And I’m notthatfast.”

“Me neither,” I said. “I’mcompetitive enough, and aggressive enough, too, but I don’t play team sports. I do trail runs instead. You get the rush and even some of the teamwork, if you run with a group, and it’s about trying to beat your own time instead of winning the big prize, because there aren’t any. More like ‘a hearty handshake and a job well done’ in trail races, but you get to run in the mud and rain and do the big hills and feel yourself hurting and powering through anyway.”

“The mud and rain is good?” Ben asked.

“Well, to me. I like a little adversity. And adrenaline, of course.”

“That’s weird,” he said.