Page 118 of Devil in Disguise
“And if I can’t come,” she said, “I want to watch on TV. Ihaveto watch. I just …” Once again, she lifted her eyes to him. “It’s justbetter,having you, and knowing you have me. It feels like …”
He waited. He wasn’t going to say it.
“It feels like love,” she said. “And maybe I don’t know what that really is,” she hurried on. “Not the way my mom does. I can’t help it. She found out the hard way, whereas I’m still so confused. It’s like, there are all these decisions, and they allmatter,but how do I know which one is right? But I’m trying to make the right ones. I’m trying not to be a …” She’d started to cry, now. A few tears, rolling down her cheeks. “A jerk,” she whispered, and then she was really crying. “A user. I don’t want to be that, Owen. Please don’t let me be that.”
He couldn’t stay still a moment longer. He was across the floor, pulling her up and into his arms. “You’re not that. Don’t you see that you’re the opposite of that?”
Her arms were around his neck, her cheek against his chest. “My father was a rapist.”
“Yep.”
“He took so much from my mom.”
“Yep. He did.”
“And I feel …” The sob ripped up from somewhere deep inside her, but she managed to keep going. “Sometimes, it seems like all I’ve done since I was born is take. From my mom. My grandma. Grandpa Oscar. I don’t want to take from anybody else. I don’t want to take from you.”
“But, baby,” he said, “don’t you see what you give?”
“No. Not … not right now. I’m kind of … unappealing right now.”
He laughed, and she did, too. “That,” he said. “That’s what. Your attention. Your honesty. Your life force. The way you bounce back. That’s what you give. And that’s why you’re going to college, right? So you can support yourself, and you can contribute. Money might be power, but it’s not the only thing that’s power.” He took her hand and put it on his heart. Right there, over the button-down. Over the T-shirt. Over the uniform of his life, wanting her to feel what was beneath it, the part of him that was warm and solid and real. “You’ve got me right here,” he told her. “That’s power. You have to be grateful? So do I, because that’s how you feel when somebody loves you. And you’re not stopping now. You’re not … you’re not containable. You’re learning everything you can, so you can be more and do more and make a difference. That’s power, too. That’s power right there.”
“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” she asked, with that honesty that was pure Dyma. “Why is it so confusing?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Because that’s how life is sometimes, I guess. But I know this. Real power doesn’t come from what you take. It comes from what you give.”
50
The Bison Shifter
You toldyourself the Super Bowl was just another game, and you prepared for it exactly the same as all the rest. When you woke up on game day, the point spread and the bragging rights and the money didn’t matter. Neither did the feeling you’d had last night, when you’d thought you were losing her, and then you hadn’t lost her at all. The sex you’d had after you’d both been through the wringer didn’t matter, either. When you were taking it slow, making it last, when it was all deep, slow kisses and your hands threaded through hers? When you were rocking her like her body was yours and yours was hers, feeling her heart beating right along with your own? When you were lying with her afterwards and she was telling you how much she loved your kindness, and your strength?
Yeah. You let that settle you, maybe, but then you focused on your job and how you were going to do it. They could bring the pressure. Theywouldbring the pressure. You had two choices: let it smash you, or let it harden you.
When you were running through the tunnel, into the lights and the deafening noise, you let the adrenaline fuel you. When the backs were jumping up and down to get themselves settled down and you were centering yourself in your body instead, because that was the way your energy ran, you let the crowd’s excitement and the nerves and the desire of the other team fill you up. When you were waiting for the kickoff, you told your rookies, “This is what we’ve played for all year, and it’s ours to take. All you have to do is your job. All you have to do is execute, and you know how. Let’s go.”
And when your QB got sacked twice and threw two interceptions in the first half, because your line wasn’t protecting him well enough? When the score was 14-0 at the half, and you didn’t have the 14? You ran back into the tunnel, took in the adjustments, had a word where it was needed, strapped your helmet back on, and ran out there again.
New half,he told himself.New game.And snapped the ball.
* * *
Her heart couldn’t takethis. Her great-grandpa was just eating a hot dog and watching, like when you got to eighty-five, you got some philosophy or something. Her mom, though, was tense as a wire fence and pretending she wasn’t, and Annabelle was leaning forward and sitting on her hands.
A Devils touchdown, finally—on an interception, because the offense was still getting stopped—in the third quarter, and time ticking down, both teams trading punts. Defensive players jumping around and beating their chests after every broken-up play, and Owen and his guys just doing their jobs and not beating anything at all. Harlan out there, poised as a gazelle and just about that fast, running his precise, perfect routes, making the catch and making the extra ten yards afterwards, getting the Devils in field-goal range.
Fourth down, and the end of the third quarter.
Owen, trotting back to the sideline, the offensive line huddled around a coach who was talking urgently, drawing on a tablet. Owen nodding his head, and still, somehow, radiating calm.
“What do I say if they lose?” She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until she had. The dread was twisting low in her, making her nearly sick.
Grandpa Oscar said, “Same thing you say if they win. That you love him, and you’re proud of him. Then you give him some space to pout a while.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The idea of Owen pouting was pretty funny. “More like space to go castrate calves until he feels better.”
“Yep,” Waylon said from behind her. “That works, too.” All kinds of humor in his voice. “He’ll be all right. Don’t you worry about Owen.”
