Page 19 of Hell Bent
I was on the bench in front of my locker, pulling on my socks after Friday’s practice, now that I’d washed off the rain and mud, thinking about my second game with the Devils coming up in Baltimore on Sunday, and definitelynotthinking that the Ravens had already clinched their division and the Devils were anybody’s guess for the playoffs, when I heard, “That was some impressive kicking out there. What was that one, sixty-two yards?”
I looked up to find Owen Johnson, the Devils’ starting center, a towel around his waist. I said, “Didn’t know anybody’d noticed. Thanks, but it’s a whole lot easier in practice.”
“Maybe,” he said, “but you looked cool enough last week.”
I shrugged. “You do it the same way every time, that’s all. Add in narrow focus and a bad memory for the times you’ve missed, and congratulations, you’re a kicker.”
Johnson said, “Huh,” and unwrapped the towel, and I shifted my gaze a little, since that was way too much information, and said, “This locker room isn’t organized by position,eh? Random assignment of players, looks like. Never came across that before. How’d that happen?”
He shrugged a massive shoulder, and somebody else said, “Owen suggested it, of course.”
Ah. That was Harlan Kristiansen, star wide receiver and also star of a bunch of slow-motion commercials that always seemed to feature his bare chest. He’d dressed already and wandered over from his spot across the way.
Johnson said, “Hey. It made sense.”
“Not saying it doesn’t make sense,” Kristiansen said. “Just that it was out of the box. You’re management material, son. Could be a career change coming up in your future.”
A dull flush had risen on Johnson’s neck. “I’ve got a career, thanks.” He pulled on his jeans, then grabbed an enormous T-shirt and tugged it over his acres of torso.
“Nah, just giving you grief,” Kristiansen said. “You know I get antsy before big games. Need to go home and spend some time with the family, get my head on straight before we head out to Baltimore tomorrow. I’ve got a kid,” he told me, aiming for casual and so clearly not achieving it. “His third Christmas on Monday, and the first one where he has any idea what’s going on. Mostly he just wants to pull all the ornaments off the tree, especially the candy canes. Man, he wants those candy canes. Active little sucker. Determined, too. Tried dragging his plastic bike thing over the other day so he could stand on the seat and reach them. Fell on his butt when it rolled, but that hasn’t stopped him trying. How about you? Got a family, or do you need a spot at the dinner table? Owen’ll be there.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m good. No family around, but I’ll figure it out.” More than surprised. Offensive linemen don’t hang out much with the flashy guys, and neither of them normally pay any attention to kickers.
“Aw, don’t do me like that,” Kristiansen said. “See, Owen’sidea with the locker room is that you work better as a team if the guys know each other as people, understand each other’s roles, trust each other. Even if you’re never on the field at the same time. Hey, I was skeptical, too, but it kinda works. Christmas dinner’s the same deal, right? You’re new. I’ve been new. Played for a bunch of teams, and ate my share of Christmas dinners in Chinese restaurants. It’ll be about as down-home as you can get, and if you can get a word in edgewise, I’ll be surprised, so you don’t even have to worry about talking. It’ll be my wife, my kid, my sister, my wife’s kid, my wife’s grandfather, and Owen. Who’s engaged to my wife’s kid, just to put it out there so it won’t be weird.”
I blinked. “OK.”
“It’s still going to be weird,” Johnson told him. “You saying it’s not weird doesn’t make it sound any less weird.” He told me, “When you meet Dyma, you’ll see why it’s not weird. She’s a firecracker. At school at the University of Colorado, but she’s home for the break now.” He started buttoning the white shirt he’d pulled on over the T-shirt fast, like he was remembering why he wanted to get home.
“Tell you what,” Kristiansen told me. “I’ve got this investment I need to check on. My wife’s still at work, and for once, it’s a meeting I can make. Come with me. Owen won’t, because he’s itching to get out the door.” Since Owen was shoving his feet into cowboy boots and standing up, that was obvious. “If you can half stand me after that,” Kristiansen went on, “maybe you’ll see your way clear to coming to Christmas dinner.”
“Why do you care?” I asked. Blunt, but what was the point of messing around? “Look, I just kick the field goals, and I’ve been doing this a while now. I know how NFL teams work, and I’m not crying into my beer over it. I’m making good money by my lights, and I’m not even getting beat up doing it. I can handle being the kicker.”
“You played soccer before, right?” Johnson asked, pulling a brown cowboy hat out of his locker and looking pretty much exactly like a cowboy, if one that no horse could hold. In Portland. What was up with that?
“Yeah,” I said. “Surprised you know that.”
“I told you,” Kristiansen said. “It’s his gift. Quiet concern for others. Getting everybody on the same page. Leadership skills. Coach material.”
“Good kickers in soccer,” Johnson said, ignoring him. “Teams are signing those rugby guys now, too. Have you seen them work? Kick from 50 meters out or more, and sometimes at the screaming edge of the field. Weird angles, not from straight out in front like we do, and they don’t just come on the field and kick, either. They kick after they’ve been running all over, tackling, adrenaline going and all. Impressive stuff. I guess soccer’s like that, too, kicking while you’re running.”
“Easier in the NFL,” I agreed. “And about the only position you can slot right into. Just aim at the sticks and swing your leg.”
“Not if you’re going to be a prima donna about it and reject your teammates’ kind overtures,” Kristiansen said, like a guy with that paycheck and charisma knew anything about rejection.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll come with you. Not like I have anything better to do.”
“Now, see?” Kristiansen said. “That’s the attitude we like. Exactly like a teenager dragged along on the family vacation. Luckily, I’m familiar. Got one of those at home, and Owen’s got another one.”
“Dyma’s twenty-one,” Johnson said. “Quit it with that stuff.”
“So put on your coat, Robillard,” Kristiansen said, “and let’s go.”
I followed Kristiansen out there.He wasn’t driving the Maserati-type thing I’d expected, and I noticed that his SUV had a baby seat in the back, but he still drove fast. Of course, I drove a bit fast myself. Onto I-84 and headed east past the airport, until he pulled into a muddy graveled lot that held hundreds of vehicles, most of the purely utilitarian variety. It had started to rain, the sky leaden and looking like it’d be dark any minute, even though it was only about three. The air held a definite December chill, and the place was the opposite of welcoming. It was a whole lot of nothing, was what it was. The ground leveled all around for what looked like half a square mile, and a bunch of guys in hard hats and fluorescent jackets and pants walking around, busy as worker ants.
“What is it?” I asked, climbing out of my car. “Shopping center? Office park?”
“Data center,” Kristiansen said. “Wave of the future, or the present, and crazy profitable. You should get in on it. They keep building them, and people keep wanting them. Come on.” He headed to the office, which was in a trailer. A half-dozen other people were standing around like they weren’t used to being anywhere nearly this grubby and were wondering if they should’ve worn boots and something other than a suit. A guy named Howard, who introduced himself as the electrical project manager, gave a quick spiel about progress, then asked, “Does anybody want a tour?”
