Page 82 of Hell Bent
“Well, obviously,” Artie said. “Brady has something like fifteen cars. That would be so awesome.”
I didn’t mention Sebastian’s one SUV or Ben’s disgust with it. It was tempting and always made me laugh, but Sebastian’s life was none of my coworkers’ business. I wanted to say, “They can so win,” and also, “What, you think it’s fine with them to lose and have their season end and feel like they’ve screwed up in the only way that matters to anybody, just because they make good money?” but it sounded childish and I was the foreman, so I said, “We’ll see what happens, but nobody’s paying us at all if we don’t keep it moving here. And if anybody hears who won,” I decided to add, “keep it to yourself.” And did not worry about Sebastian’s feelings.
Even though he didn’t need any more pain in his life.
I was independent, though, and so was he. He was doing his job, I was doing mine, and we both knew how to handle disappointment. That was great. That was fine.
It was fine.
32
LAKE EFFECT
Sebastian
The snow was getting away from us. What had started out as flurries had worsened steadily throughout the game. Lake-effect snow, they called it. I knew that, because we’d had it in Ottawa, too. A good six inches had settled on the field in the second half, and it was still coming, swirling so hard it was difficult to see twenty yards ahead. The grounds crew was out there during every break clearing the line stripes and the sidelines, so you could more or less tell where you were, but that was all.
The gamewas getting away from us, too. Late in the fourth quarter, still 7 to 6 in our favor, but after struggling uncharacteristically for more than three quarters, the Bills were driving, players finding their feet, moving with that extra confidence you saw in a team that was feeling the momentum shift their way. Short passes, short runs before a defensive player caught up, but they kept on coming. Our defense had been valiant all game long, but gloved hands slipped on jerseys and cleats slipped on snow, and the Bills kept coming on.
I stood on the sideline with my hands stuffed into my parka the way I’d told Kristiansen I would, but I didn’t feel anything like as calm and confident as I’d tried to come across. The only contribution I’d made so far was an extra point and two kickoffs, and knowing that the Bills hadn’t trusted their own kicker for that extra point in the conditions and had gone for two instead, which hadn’t worked? Cold comfort. Literally.
The Bills to the 24. A slant pass, a run, and a first down on the 13. Six minutes left in the game, and they weren’t hurrying to use any of them. Running out the clock.
Another TV break for the first down, and some more frantic clearing of the field. The defense down almost at the goal line, huddled like a herd of sheep against the storm, barely visible through the blowing snow. And beside me, Kelsan Simmons, the undersized, undrafted twenty-three-year-old who’d won the kick-returner job by sheer force of will—and by outworking everybody else—said, “Damn,” and beat his gloved hands together to keep them warm.
“Too early to say that,” I told him.
“Nah, man,” he said absently, his eyes on the field as the Bills ran yet another short passing play. The QB backpedaled, swiveled—and was sacked by Dante Culpepper, who jumped up and did some chest-thumping. I couldn’t blame him. Beside me, Simmons said, “I just want to get out there.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too. You know the hardest part of this job?”
“What,” Simmons said, “getting the ball to go through the pointy things?”
“No,” I said. “Not getting the chance to.”
“Yeah,” he said, then was jumping, still beating his hands together in the way of a 23-year-old with too many fast-twitch muscle fibers and a total inability to sit still. The Devils had just stopped the Bills again. This time, the QB had got thepass off, but it had only reached the original line of scrimmage.
“Third down,” Simmons said unnecessarily. “Come on. Comeon.”
The Bills were set up in a running formation. Made sense, because the snow was even heavier now, blowing nearly horizontally from the north. The ball was snapped into the QB’s hands where he stood under center, and he was turning to hand it to the running back, who took it and was instantly darting, twisting.
Wait.Play action. The QB still had the ball, and he shot it hard and low, the only way to get momentum on it in this wind, to his tight end. Foxworth, that was. His gloved hands closed around it halfway between those last two cleared lines, the 10 and the goal line, his feet already moving as the crowd roared into life like some enormous, headless animal, because as far as I could tell, nobody had gone home. Inches of snow covering them, and they were still there, still willing their team on.
Boom.Something like a freight train smashed into Foxworth even as the ball hit his hands. His feet were still moving, but the slippery, icy ball had squirted out, was bouncing. A groan from the crowd, and another Devils player picked it up and started to run. I was jumping myself now, but the whistle blew and the runner stopped. Not a fumble, or not ruled that way. Incomplete pass.
Simmons and I were both clapping, then I was shoving my hands under my arms to warm them and so was he. My heart had picked up speed, and I couldn’t even feel the cold anymore. My eyes were on the field, where the field-goal unit was trotting out.
Twenty-seven yards,my mind automatically informed me. No kind of gimme in the wind and snow, but Carlos Alvarez was a good kicker despite that earlier choice by his coach,and he’d have learned something about winter after kicking here all season.
A good snap, Alverez’s leg up, his helmet down, and the ball sailing … sailing wide right?
The ball hit the upright, and I was frozen, watching. A half-second that felt like a minute, and it had bounced left. And gone through.
Not 7 to 6 anymore. 7 to 9.
And the clock ticking down toward the two-minute warning.
I hadn’t been calm all game, but suddenly, I was. A sort of shield had settled down around me, a bubble of invincibility, a certainty deep down in my chest that all I could do from here was my best, and that I knew how to do that. I was turning to Simmons just before he ran out with the special-teams unit and saying, “You’ve got some of the best moves I’ve ever seen. Get out there and show it, and I’ll put it through. We can win this.”
