Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

“Baby,” Jennifer said, “no. I can take care of myself.”

  “Fine,” Dyma said. She had her arms crossed. “Then you should start doing it. But I’m going to take care of myself, too, and tell this guy that, no, my mom and I didn’t both sleep with your son. That’s disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself, insulting my mom like that. And I’m in high school, so you’re probably insulting your son, too. Not to mention being really gross. Never mind. No point. I’m starving. I need to try to find some food I can eat.”

  Harlan said, “I’m on it. Hang on one second. Owen, could you …”

  “Don’t worry, man,” Owen said. “I’ve got this.”

  Harlan took off, but turned back after a couple steps, grabbed the beer from Jennifer, thrust it into Owen’s hand instead, then took Jennifer’s hand and said, “On second thought, come with me.”

  Owen would take care of Dyma, and he’d take care of Annabelle, too, if it came to that, but damned if Harlan was leaving Jennifer here with his dad. Damned if he was.

  Jennifer said, “Kris—Harlan. Wait.” He was pulling her through the crowd so fast, her bratwurst slipped off her paper plate. She’d love to think she was too upset to care, but it had been a really good bratwurst. Besides, Dyma was right. She was used to hearing this kind of thing, and if she was upset, it was for Harlan, because his dad was a major jerk.

  She could hear it. She didn’t have to wear it. She could listen to that and eat a bratwurst any day of the week. She wasn’t in Wild Horse anymore.

  “What?” Harlan said, then stopped and turned to her. “Too fast? Sorry.” He ran a gloved hand over his head. “I keep forgetting I don’t have hair,” he muttered.

  What? Was he having some kind of psychotic break from the stress? How bad had his life here been? “You do have hair,” she assured him. “You’re just wearing a hat.”

  He stared at her, then laughed. “No. I’m just …” He took a breath, blew it out, and said, “Right, Kristiansen. You aren’t actually all that. Also—Dyma. Food.” Some new Michelin-Man figure with a walrus mustache came up to shake his hand, and he told the guy, “Hang on a second, OK, Alan? I’m on a mercy mission here.” Then he took Jennifer’s hand again, said, “Right. I’m walking slower,” and steered her towards a sort of stage at the end of the parking lot. “I used to have long hair, that’s all. It was sort of my thing. The Viking. Never mind. You don’t need to know that. I need to go do this deal now, though.”

  He still looked a little worried. She said, “Go ahead. I’m fine.”

  “Ten minutes,” he said. “I promise.” Then he leaped up onto the stage in a couple strides, grabbed a microphone, and said, “Hey, everybody. Good to be here today. If you’ll indulge me, I’m going to take a second to talk to all of you.”

  It took just about that long for the entire parking lot to fall silent. Harlan said, “First off—anybody grilling anything out there that isn’t a meat product? Got some hot mac and cheese left over, maybe? I brought some friends with me today. Owen Johnson, for one, and don’t worry, Owen’ll eat any meat product you got. Lock up your bratwurst. But I brought my friend Jennifer and her daughter Dyma with me, too. Dyma’s turned vegetarian on us, and she’s about starving to death. Anybody?” He looked around, saw some raised hands, and said, “That’s great. She’s right over there”—he pointed—“with Owen and my sister. Take her a plate of food, and I’ll look like a guy who keeps his promises, OK?”

  He paused a second, then, took off his hat, stuffed it into his coat pocket, ruffled his short hair, and said, “You know—I said I couldn’t come today, but at the last minute, I needed to show you all my haircut. Some of you knew me last time it was this short. What was I, twelve?” Laughter, and he grinned and said, “Yeah. Been a long time since then, but I haven’t forgotten much. I remember Mrs. Abernathy driving me home from practice, and Mr. and Mrs. Nilsson out here before every game, selling tickets in the freezing cold. Kind of like today. I remember Coach Gundersen making me do fifty up-downs just about every day, that senior season when I thought I was the team and started running my mouth in practice. Remember that, guys?” More laughter. “Yeah, he was tough on me. On us. And he made us, too. He took us to State, and I bet we’ve all held onto the ring that said we did it. I know I have.”

  He took a moment, then grabbed the microphone out of its stand and paced across the stage with it, and every person in the parking lot watched him do it. He looked up, finally, and said, “You know … our coaches took us there, and we took each other there, too, maybe, but that wasn’t all. This whole town took us there. You all were always behind us, though you may not want to be so quick to associate yourself with me now, of course.” Another grin, one hand shoved into his pocket, his legs long and lean in his jeans. Bareheaded, like he’d never heard of cold, and confident, like he’d never heard of giving up.

  “Something else I was thinking on the way out here, though,” he went on. “You know that thing they say? The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat? You can’t have one without the other, is what I realized. You’ve got to hate to lose so much, you’ll do anything you can to win. You’ll play hurt. You’ll push yourself past anyplace you thought you could go. When you drop a pass, it’s got to burn hard enough in you that you’ll catch two hundred more the next day, trying to get better. You’ll work out in the offseason, when you ought to be on some beach somewhere, working on nothing more than your tan. My buddy Owen said the other day, ‘Nothing good comes easy,’ and that’s just about right.”

  Another pause, then. Harlan frowning at the ground, then out at the crowd. He had them in the palm of his hand. Jennifer knew it. She felt it. He was talking to half the town, and it was like he was making a personal connection with every individual in it. He might be good at running and blocking and tackling, and he might be great at catching the ball—she was going to take all of that on faith, because she had no idea—but that connection? That was his real gift.

  “You know what I realized today?” he said. “All of that—it’s not just about football. The important things in life are exactly the same as when I was on that high-school team. That if you don’t want it, you won’t work hard enough for it, and if you don’t work hard enough for it, you won’t get it. And it’s not even just about that, because it’s not a one-man game, and it’s not a fifty-five-man one, either. There’s the cheerleaders, coming out no matter what, giving their support. There’s the parents and the friends and the boosters, and there’s all your teammates, no matter what number’s on their back, and whether they’re starting or warming the bench, because one thing I can tell you for sure. There’s going to be a time in your life when you’re warming the bench. So—yeah. I learned all the most important lessons of my life right here in this town, and a whole lot of them in this school and in this stadium. How to win with humility, or at least pretend to, because I’m not always so good at that. How to lose with more grace than I’m feeling, and how to own my part in it. How to get knocked down and get back up ready to try harder. And maybe even how to be a decent guy, because that’s the biggest one of all. I learned that from the decent people I grew up around. I learned it from all of you. So for all of you who helped me along the way … thanks. Life’s a team sport. Thanks to everybody here who helped me learn to play it.”

  He went to shove his hair back, laughed, and said, “I still keep forgetting. Got to get another embarrassing mannerism, I guess. I’m about to go hop on a plane again, now that I’m done splashing around all that emotion like a guy who’s forgotten he’s Norwegian, but before I do, I want to tell the team, and all of you guys out there who are going to be trying to get onto it, one last thing, and it comes from my heart. When you’re out there on the field in the cold next season, when you’re down on the scoreboard, digging deep for everything you’ve got, doing it for the guy next to you, and for the school, and for the town? Know this. There’ll be one proud Patriot out there cheering you on. I’ll be right there with you, because I haven’t
forgotten you. Any of you. And I never will.”

  19

  An Impossible Choice

  Harlan jumped off the stage again and shook some more hands, but he was making his way through the crowd and back to Jennifer.

  He wasn’t hers, and he never would be. But the fantasy was right here.

  When he got to her, he said, “Hi. Ready to get out of here?” He was smiling, but there was strain behind the smile.

  “Yes.” She grabbed the beanie out of his jacket pocket and said, “Lean down.” When he did, she tugged it onto his head, then held on, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed her mouth to his.

  His arms went around her, he pulled her close with one hand around the back of her head, and he was kissing her back with so much hunger, it took her breath away. Like he needed her. Her head, her body, were full of his outsized presence, the cedar-woods scent of him.

  When he lifted his head at last, he didn’t let her go. He said, “Am I apologizing?” His eyes searching hers.

  “N-no,” she said. “No. That was great. The speech, I mean. You were great. I was so—I was proud.” She tried to laugh. “I can’t say what I feel.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, still with his arm around her. “I think I got your point. Thanks.”

  She did laugh, then. She was feeling much too giddy for it to come out steady. “I don’t know if you told your dad, but you sure told the town. You did what you came to do. And you know what? Nobody’s even said Happy Birthday. You’re supposedly so special, they want you here so much, but nobody’s even said that? Do they even know you? I wonder. And you know what we should do? We should go have birthday cake.”

  “Good idea. Where would we do that?”

  “Uh … I could look it up, but you’re the expert on North Dakota.”

  “Nope. I don’t want to have my cake here. I’ve been freezing cold for about a week, ever since I got back from Hawaii.”

  “Hawaii?”

  “Pro Bowl. Never mind. We should go someplace not-freezing. Also, there’s that hot tub. How does New Mexico sound? Got to be a spa in New Mexico.”

  “I need to be home tomorrow.”

  “So? Tomorrow’s a whole day away. Let’s go to New Mexico.”

  First, though, he had to get out of here.

  He still had hold of Jennifer when they got back to the others. The mayor was up on stage, talking about moving the party inside, which wasn’t just a no, it was a hell, no. Once he went inside, he’d be stuck for hours. He saw Linc, the driver, hovering near the others and said, “Great. You’re here. Ten minutes, OK?”

  “Warming up the car right now,” Linc said. “I’ll bring it around. Want me to call the charter company so the pilot knows we’re on our way and can spin up the jet?”

  “You bet,” Harlan said, and Linc nodded and took off.

  Money couldn’t buy you everything, but it could sure buy you a quick getaway.

  His dad was still right there, ready to get some more digs in, but Harlan was running a post route here, straight down the field. He got the first word in, saying, “We’re about to get out of here, but good to see you, Bug.”

  Annabelle said, “You just got here, though. Aren’t you going to stay for the game? It’s your birthday, too. You can’t leave in the middle of your birthday.” Looking dismayed, and as always, he wanted to take her with him. He hated leaving her here alone. He hated it.

  Their dad said, “Of course he’s not staying. He made his big entrance, gave the big speech, and now he’s ready to waltz out again. Gets that from his mom. After I told everybody he’d gone back to Hawaii, that he couldn’t face folks here. How do I look now?”

  Harlan wanted to say, Like a liar? Also, if the gloves were off—or the beers had reached the tipping point—he was definitely getting out of here, because his presence wouldn’t help anything.

  Annabelle said, “We could have dinner back at the house, if you don’t want to stay here. I made chili, and I could make a carrot cake or something.” Which was just an impossible choice.

  He said, “I wish I could, Bug, but I’ve got to get Dyma and Jennifer back to Idaho. I promised. I just didn’t want to let folks down, that’s all. Tell you what. Spring break, you can come visit. OK?”

  “Really?” she asked. She’d grown to nearly five-eleven over this junior year in high school and still looked gawky and new, like a leggy colt. When she felt unsure, she looked even more that way.

  “She’s got softball,” Axel said. “She’s not going anywhere. They don’t stop practicing just because it’s spring break. Nebraska and Minnesota both sent recruiting letters, plus a bunch of other shit schools that I threw out, but that scholarship isn’t going to happen if she bombs out of the playoffs this spring. Who’s going to push her if she’s out there in Party Central? You?”

  Harlan had skirted this topic too many times. He’d skirted too many topics. He said, “You know, I’ve been called a lot of things. Not sure I’ve ever been called a non-inspirational guy, though, at least not athletically speaking. Got a gym in my house. Got a pool, too. Got hundreds of miles of trail to run, right down the road, and some people might even call me a good training partner. Spring break’s April, right? Could be raining. Training in the rain’s good. Toughens you up. Come on, Dad. Send her out.”

  “You telling me you won’t be having parties?” his dad said. “Inviting your NFL buddies around? Annabelle comes home pregnant by some big black buck, that’s not going to be a great start to her future, now, is it?”

  Annabelle said, “Dad.” Owen said, “Jesus.” Jennifer didn’t say anything. Shocked, Harlan thought.

  Dyma had no problem, though. She came right out with it. “That’s … that’s such a horrible thing to say. I don’t even have words. I mean, I thought the things you said before were horrible, but that’s even worse. Also, my mom got pregnant in high school, so thanks a lot.”

  Harlan said, “Unacceptable.” He barely managed the word, because the top of his head was about to blow off. He took a breath. “I’m going to say this one thing, and then we’re out of here. My guess is she’ll get that scholarship. It doesn’t matter anyway, though, because she doesn’t need a scholarship. If she needs help going to college, I’m right here to give it. The offer’s open, and it stays open.”

  “I can educate my own kids,” his dad said. “I don’t need any help from you. She needs to help earn it. You want her running off as soon as life gets a little hard, like your mom?”

  It was a stab to the heart, as always. His dad had always known where to hit you.

  Harlan tried, but he had nothing, so he just said, “I’ve got to go. Walk me to the car, Bug.”

  It wasn’t very far to the car, Jennifer found. That was unfortunate, because Harlan clearly needed some time with his sister. She looked upset, and he looked furious.

  When they got there, he gave Annabelle a hug that she returned with fierce intensity, then stepped back, searched her face, and asked, “How’s it going? Really?”

  “It’s OK,” she said.

  “He hitting you? Doing anything …” He looked around, then lowered his voice. “Anything else?”

  “No,” she said. “He’s the same as always. But …” She was twisting the strap of her purse between her fingers.

  “But what?” he asked. “Because I can tell. He’s not the same. He’s worse. Listen—come with us.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “You know I can’t. I’m not eighteen.”

  “Come in the car,” he said. “Ten minutes to the airport, and my buddy Linc here will drive you home afterwards. OK, Linc?”

  “Sure,” the driver said. He was still patiently holding the door. “The hours are the hours. It doesn’t matter where I go.”

  “I should come back here,” Annabelle said.

  “No.” Harlan’s tone brooked no argument. “You need to be safe getting home. Hop in.”

  “I’ll sit up front,” Jennifer said. There were only two seats in
the middle row, and the two of them definitely needed some time and the bare amount of privacy that sitting together in a row could bring.

  When they were driving again, she heard Harlan say behind her, “Did you ask him about doing your senior year in Portland?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I did it in the morning, when he’s better”—not drinking, Jennifer guessed that meant—“but he said no anyway, and he got super mad. I don’t know why he cares that much. I mean, there’s me fixing dinner, but half the time he doesn’t even eat it. It’s almost like he hates you, but why would he hate you? He keeps talking about the sports, though. He cares about that, so maybe that’s why. He still came to all my volleyball games this fall, just like usual, and yelled at me afterwards like always. He definitely cares that I get a scholarship. Anyway, he’s not that bad, not really. Not when you aren’t around.”

  Harlan said, “Oh. I almost forgot. Here.”

  Silence, and Jennifer wanted to turn around, but didn’t.

  “Oh, wow,” Annabelle said. “Seriously?”

  “I should’ve thought of it sooner,” Harlan said. “This way you can talk to me anytime, or text me, and to Francie or Heather, too, and your friends. The bill’s coming to me, so nobody’s going to see it. Just turn the sound off at home, OK? And keep it in your backpack. Or maybe your underwear drawer would be better.”

  A phone. The reason he’d stopped at the AT&T store. She didn’t have one now?

  “Who drove today?” Harlan asked next.

  “What? Oh. He did. Even though I offered.”

  “Don’t get in the car with him when he’s been drinking,” Harlan said. “Seriously. Don’t.”

  “I wanted to see you, though,” she said. “Besides, he hasn’t had any accidents, except that once when he hit the fence, and that time he drove into the ditch, but it was icy. Anyway, he isn’t bad like that all the time. It’s just when you’re around, or sometimes when he’s really ... I’ve got no choice, Harlan,” she said with more urgency. He must’ve had some kind of look on his face. She went on, “Everybody else made it out just fine, right? It just seems worse to you because I’m the only one left at home. It’s one and a half more years of school, and that’s all. Less than one and a half. But if I could come to Portland for spring break—that’d be great. I don’t think he’ll let me, though. You heard him.”