Page 129 of Hell Bent
“Sucks,” Ben said.
“You bet it sucks.” I took my arm away. Better not smother the kid. “Think you can manage a flight to Baltimore, though? I’d sure like it better if you and Alix were there.”
“Yeah. But I think you should do the tickets this time so we can go first class.”
“One private jet,” I said. “One. And you’re already in the caviar club.”
“Dude,” Ben said. “No. I mean Alix. She’s your girlfriend, and she’s sick, or hurt, or whatever you call that thing she has, and it’s a long way. Plus, it’s cheap, having her fly back there like that.”
“You aren’t wrong,” I said. “On either thing. OK. Here’s what we do. We blame it on you.”
He blinked. “What?”
“She doesn’t want to take it from me. You’ve heard her. I’m going to say that I want to give you a better time than that, considering the week you’ve had, so would she please fly up front with you. And you’d better back me up.”
“OK,” he said. “I can do that.”
“Good. And by the way? Private school?” We’d reached the car, and I bumped the lock and climbed inside as Lexi jumped into the back—I was going to have to wash that seat cover again, because no dog could carry more mud than aGolden Retriever—and Ben got into the front beside me and clipped his seatbelt without my asking.
“Private school,” he said. “I told you. It’s really expensive. Plus, what if the kids are, like, snobby?”
“We’ll visit them,” I said, putting the car in gear. “We’ll research. Schools, neighborhoods. We’ll find out. Your school’s a priority, and we’ll make it one. Private school, or public. Whichever seems best. Group decision.”
“Expensive,” he reminded me. “Thomas told me that the good public schools here are in rich places. The U.S. is weird that way. In Canada, we figure everybody should get educated, you know?”
“Fortunately,” I said, pulling out from the curb, “Iamrich. So we’ll count our blessings and figure it out.”
51
LEARNING THE RULES
Alix
That Sunday was the most comfortable I’d been so far at a football game—it wasn’t actually snowing, raining,orblowing at gale force in Baltimore, despite the stadium’s domeless status, which so far had felt like teams daring winter to get in their way, and winter helpfully obliging.
It was also the least comfortable I’d been at a football game.
Was it my period? A little. The infusion had helped, but I wouldn’t say that this week had been my easiest ever at work, and I’d sure been glad to have that day off yesterday. And can I just confess something? Much as I’d protested at Sebastian buying those first-class tickets for Ben and me—I’d only given in because Sebastian was right, itwouldhave been stupid and counterproductive for Ben to ride up front by himself with nobody to talk to, less than a week after that race across a continent to get to his dying mom—it was sure more comfortable. I’d brought one of Sebastian’s gel packs, and the minute I’d been allowed to, I’d reclined my seat, stuck that cold pack onto my abdomen, drunk my first cup oftea, started a movie, and almost instantly fallen asleep. Luxury.
Ben had watchedtwomovies. He’d also eaten his entire meal. And then he’d eaten mine. They’d been, he’d informed me, “not bad, some beef thing. But really small. The ice cream was, like, tiny.”
So not so much my period, and not the weather. Not even Sebastian, because I hadn’t seen him last night. Which leaves, of course, the score. It was 21 to 20 in favor of the Ravens, who were about to punt the ball away. Baltimore was backed all the way up to their ten-yard-line, which meant the Devils would get the ball back with good field position. Great, right? It hadn’t even been a defensive slugfest this time, but a real honest-to-God football game, with touchdowns and everything, so you’d think we’d be in good shape.
We would have been, except that there were, let’s see, six seconds left in the game. Almost all of the 71,000-strong sold-out crowd was on its feet, tasting that Super Bowl and probably booking their tickets to Vegas, dancing and singing some chant like “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh,” which was apparently their anthem. Stupid anthem, if you asked me. Purple jerseys, purple jackets, purple hats, and a whole lot of singing. Extremely annoying singing, I might add. I wanted to stand up and yell, “Stop gloating!” Except that, I had to concede, if it had been the Devils ahead with six seconds left, I’d probably have been dancing and singing myself.
Not much excitement around me, though, because the families section was a silent, glum group. Ben had his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, because I felt about the same. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t seem to register it. Jennifer was sitting beside me again, but not even watching, because Nick was fussing to get down. She was saying, “Almost time to go, baby,” in a resigned sort of way. Dymaalone was leaning forward, her hands folded prayer-fashion under her chin, muttering, “Come on. Comeon.”
“I think that ship has sailed,” I told her. “Oh, well. They’ve beat every expectation.” Carlton would be happy, because I was sure he’d bet on the Ravens. He’d say “I told you so,” too. I was going to have to work on my anger management skills.
Sebastian wouldn’t take any consolation at all from beating anybody’s expectations. He’d made both his field goals, one from forty-eight yards, but I’d already figured out that he cared more about the team than about his stats. He’d put Solange’s death on the back burner this week, it was clear, like, “I’ll deal with that once the season’s over.” How did you come to terms with both those losses at once, though? Sure, you could say people mattered more than any game and be right, but this loss was going to make the other one worse. You always think that tragedy brings perspective, but in the moment? Tragedy mostly brings fragility.
“Stop jinxing them,” Dyma said fiercely. “The game’s not over yet. Simmons will fair catch it, and there’ll be time for one more play.” The guy was poised back there near the far sideline, every inch of his slim 5’9” frame practically quivering with intention, but “back there” was exactly the problem. The Ravens punter was good, Dyma had informed me during a more optimistic and chatty moment in the game, which meant he’d be kicking it to, what? The Devils’ 40? The Devils would have to get sixty yards down the field on one play, against a team who knew that play was the only thing standing between them and the Super Bowl. My uterus gave a throb in sympathy, and I put my hand over it and thought,Back to the hotel and lie down. You can think about it after you’ve rested, and figure out how to talk to Sebastian about it, how you can help. And he’s a big boy. He's been through it all before.
That was the problem, though. He’d been through way too much, and I’d wanted this for him so badly.
Suck it up.The punter took his few steps, his leg swung, the ball flew, yes, a long, long way down the field, Simmons waved his hand in the air—fair catch, to leave all six seconds on the clock—and …
And Simmons fell down.
