Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  And a promise strong enough that she could let herself fall and believe you would catch her. Every single time.

  She said, “It’s so beautiful. And I love you, too. I love you so much. I can’t … Could you put it on me?”

  “Is that a yes? This is forever, you know. I want to make sure.”

  “Yes.” She laughed, even though she was crying. “Yes. Oh, Harlan. That’s a yes.”

  64

  Clutch Play

  Harlan stood in the tunnel on an October Sunday, focused on his breathing, and got his head right.

  It didn’t matter that they were playing the Patriots, in the rematch of the game where he’d come up short on that Hail Mary. It didn’t matter that the Devils were four and one so far, because records didn’t win games. It didn’t even matter right now that Jennifer was due in two weeks, and that his announcement that he was taking a week off after the baby had been met with scorn and disbelief and chatter about his entitlement, especially since they were playing the Chiefs on the first weekend in November, and that was going to be a tough one.

  “If the Devils lose and that loss knocks them out of the playoffs,” one NFL analyst had warned, “he’s going to be blamed for it, and not just outside the team. It’s team first. That’s what he’s paid for, and that’s the way it has to be.” Since Major League Baseball was still the only league that offered paternity leave, and every player knew it.

  He knew what everybody had said, because Annabelle had told him. Looking worried about it. She’d said, “What if they cut you, or you lose your starting position?”

  He’d said, “Hey, now, Bug. You know somebody’s always saying something. Everybody’s always saying something. I can’t worry about that. I’ll keep my job if I’m the best and the coach thinks he needs me in order to win, and that’s it. Nobody owes me a thing. It’s sports. But I owe Jennifer and Nick something, and it’s not always team first, whatever the NFL says. It’s our first baby, and I’m going to be there for it. It’s the right thing to do, and it doesn’t matter if nobody else knows it. It matters that I know it, and I do it.”

  In fact, if Jennifer hadn’t delivered by Halloween, her due date, they were going to induce.

  “It’ll be less comfortable,” she’d said, “but it’s not going to be comfortable anyway, so who cares. I’m not going to be comfortable if you aren’t there with me, I’ll tell you that. So, yeah. I’m all in.” She’d pulled his head down, kissed him hard, and smiled at him, even though they’d been in the doctor’s office. Jennifer had come a long way, embarrassment-wise, though he could still make her blush when he tried, and he loved trying.

  One more thing didn’t matter. That his father had been sentenced last week. Harlan hadn’t been there, because he’d been in Miami, and Jennifer hadn’t been there, because she was too pregnant to travel, but everybody else had gone. Vanessa, he was sure, had held Annabelle’s hand, and they’d all made statements. Vanessa’s had been scorched-earth, and their grandmother’s had made everybody cry. Vanessa had read his in court, too. It had hurt him as much to write it as if the words were stabbing into his heart, sharp as daggers, but he’d gone on and dug it all up from the bottom of his soul anyway, because he owed his mom that. And because it might be another step you needed to take if you wanted to live all the way, not just on the field.

  Ten years for manslaughter. That was what his dad had gotten, because that was the maximum sentence. It felt cruel, and it felt wrong, but life could be cruel and wrong, and at least there was no chance now of his dad escaping justice. The evidence, the prosecutor had explained, had all been circumstantial, and the time lapse had been too long for anybody to remember much. “And you never know what a jury’s going to do.” But his father had been led out of the courtroom by a bailiff, and he was in the state penitentiary now.

  “And,” Jennifer had told him on Monday, when he’d been holding her close in the sweet aftermath of gentle nine-months-pregnant love, “I think ten years alone, with no visitors, no phone calls, and no money deposited in your account by your loving family, would be hell. If you want hell for him—knowing that your children hate you, that your parents have disowned you, that your friends have shunned you, that you’re alone, and that you’ve earned being alone—I can’t think of anything worse.”

  “I’m not going to feel sorry for him,” he’d said. “I can’t. I can’t forgive. He wrecked too many lives. Maybe I should be able to forgive, but I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to,” she’d answered. “He’s never told you he’s sorry. He’s never taken responsibility. How can you forgive that? Maybe someday, he will, and you can decide. You don’t have to do it now.”

  None of that mattered right now, though, because they were about to run out there. It mattered that he was prepared, that he’d trained at a hundred percent, and that he’d leave everything on the field today. Just like he did every time.

  He was here now, and he was ready to do his job.

  Annabelle said, “The smashmouth spread is really working for them.”

  Jennifer said, “Don’t say ‘smashmouth’ to me when Harlan’s out there, please.” And switched her massaging recliner to the yoga function. Harlan was out there being as physical as it was possible for a man to be, and she needed her chair to stretch for her.

  He’d replaced one of the regular recliners in the media room with this thing. It was huge, it was horribly expensive, it was ridiculous, and it looked like a great chair for her grandpa, but she had to admit that she loved it. “Also,” she’d told him, “you can use it too, after games.”

  “Yeah,” he’d said, “you tell yourself that.”

  Annabelle glanced at her. “You OK? Need anything? A drink, or another snack?” Which was heroic of her, since the Devils offense was on the field, and Annabelle was normally glued to the screen for every second of that.

  “Fine,” Jennifer said. “I’m just really achy. But you know what, during the commercial, could you make me a cup of tea?”

  She wasn’t positive, but she thought so. By the next commercial, she thought so more, and as soon as Annabelle left the room, she grabbed her phone.

  “Hey, maternal unit,” Dyma answered. “You watching Harlan? Did you see that great catch? How does he stretch that far and still keep his balance to run afterwards?”

  “Yeah,” Jennifer said. “It was great.” She was gasping a little, because it wasn’t easy to talk when your abdomen was being squeezed like it was the part of her in that massager. “But … could you listen on the radio, do you think? In the car, on the way here?”

  “Oh. Wow. Is it happening?”

  “Yes. And I know you want to watch Owen and I said you didn’t need to come anyway, but Harlan won’t be home for four hours at the earliest, and you can get here in three. It won’t be faster than that, because you took fourteen hours, but I th—”

  “Mom,” Dyma said, to the sound of some rustling. “Stop talking. I’m on my way.”

  Two minutes to go. Out of timeouts. Hurry-up offense. Down by three.

  On their own 32-yard-line.

  Malik Jefferson, the QB, shouting out the play as they got back into formation, his arm drawing circles in the air like that would get them there faster. Owen, barking to the offensive line. All eleven men in the zone, focused all the way, and on the other side of the ball, the Patriots exactly the same. They saw the pass coming. They knew there was no other choice. Demarcus Williams, the cornerback, eyes wide behind the face mask, tracking every twitch of Harlan’s muscles, and Dante Francis, the free safety, tracking everybody.

  Pass and catch and get out of bounds to stop the clock. Once. Twice. Three times, and this time, the ball came to Harlan. A bullet, thrown with all Jefferson’s arm strength, threading the needle through the defenders. Harlan caught it, the shock of the contact reverberating up his arms, and stretched for the sideline. Williams tackling him as he went, and Francis slamming into him from behind.

  He kept his legs
moving, even as he started going down. He stretched out with everything in him, and when he’d done all he could, he found a little more to give. And the ball touched the line. Still in his hands.

  The referee’s arm going out, pointing to the end zone. First down, and the clock stopped.

  At their own 45, now. Twenty more yards for a shot at the field goal and overtime. A minute and thirty seconds on the clock.

  Pass and catch and get out of bounds. He’d been doing it for twenty years, and he was doing it now. A decoy when the ball didn’t come his way, drawing double coverage, doing his very best to signal that he expected the pass.

  Another first down, but barely. Fifty-five seconds. Taking off and running his route, and Williams on him like a bird dog.

  Harlan knew the ball was going to his left. He didn’t have to look. He was watching Francis, the safety, seeing the moment when he started tracking his path to the ball. Which would be headed straight toward Darius Smith, the second wide receiver.

  Harlan had never been known as a power blocker. This season, he’d worked to change that. Extra time in the weight room. Extra drills. And most of all, extra will.

  You did whatever it took. And it wasn’t all about you.

  The nurse said, “Getting close now. Let’s turn the TV off. Doctor says she’s five minutes out. You got here just in time, didn’t you?”

  “Are you … kidding?” Jennifer gasped. “That’s my … fiancé. Leave it on.”

  Dyma said, “Mom.”

  “Shut up and hold my hand,” Jennifer said.

  “All righty, then,” Dyma said. “Looks like I’m a labor coach. Too bad I have no idea how to be a labor coach.”

  “No,” Jennifer said. “I’m waiting for … Harlan.” The urge to push was growing, the pain intense.

  It had happened fast. She’d thought, for a while, that they weren’t going to make it. Annabelle had driven like a demon, though. They might be getting a ticket for that one yellow light that had been turning red, but she’d gotten them here.

  “Babies don’t wait,” the nurse told her, but Jennifer wasn’t listening. She was watching the TV. Seeing Harlan lower his shoulder pads, get his body down low, shove straight up with his palms, and keep his feet moving. Knocking the charging defender right off the ball, which the other guy, the right guy, caught and ran with. Straight out of bounds.

  Dyma gave a whoop. “That’s a block. I didn’t know Harlan could block like that. I didn’t know he would block like that.”

  “No guts,” Jennifer said, through the concentric red circles that were squeezing her insides tight, “no glory.”

  Dr. Leather Pants coming in, then, masked and gowned and gloved, saying, “Where are we here?”

  “Thirty yards from the … goal line,” Jennifer said. “Twenty … seconds on the clock. First … down.”

  “Maybe time for two more plays,” Dyma said. “Then they have to go for it.”

  “Uh-huh,” the doctor said, wheeling her stool up close. “You know what? I think we’ll just concentrate on this baby instead. I’m going to check you, Jennifer. Little discomfort here.”

  She put her hand up there, and it was more than a little discomfort. It was horrible. Dyma said, “Breathe, Mom. Do … whatever the class says. Blow out, I think. I’m a lousy labor coach. Harlan better win soon and get here.”

  Jennifer barely heard her. She was in a tunnel of pain. The doctor pulled her hand out and said, “Ten centimeters. We both made it just in time. On the next contraction, you can push.”

  “I want to … wait,” Jennifer said. On the screen, the pass was incomplete. One more chance, and then it was the field goal. And overtime.

  No overtime, she begged inside. Come on, Harlan. Win. And get here.

  “There’s no waiting,” the doctor said firmly. “There’s pushing. You’ve got a boy here who wants to come out, and you need to get him born.”

  Jennifer didn’t hear, because she was watching. Harlan, poised behind the line like a deer ready to bolt. His ears would be cocked, his lightning reflexes twitching.

  Owen, his sure hands on the ball, ready for the snap. The quarterback, nearly ten yards back, turning his head one way, then the other, yelling out signals, changing the play, The play clock in the corner of the screen, counting down.

  Six seconds. Five. Four. Three. Two.

  Owen snapped the ball. And Harlan ran.

  Two defensive players on him like heat-seeking missiles, but Harlan didn’t seem even to notice them. He was so fast, his feet barely touched the ground, and so sure, all you could do was believe.

  The quarterback cocking his arm, throwing the pass like an arrow from a bow, straight down the field.

  It seemed to hang there forever.

  The crowd on their feet, roaring.

  Three bodies jumping, reaching, stretching. One of them jumping those two inches higher, his body bent backwards, his gloved hands closing around the ball. Coming down with it as the two other players tried to wrestle it loose. His body hitting the turf with theirs on top of him.

  The replay.

  The review.

  Another contraction started, the hardest one yet. The doctor and the nurse were chanting, “Push now. Push. Push. Push.”

  She pushed. It burned. And she didn’t close her eyes.

  Slow motion. Again and again. The crowd with their hands at their mouths, waiting.

  The referee’s arms shooting over his head, the whistle blowing.

  Touchdown.

  Players spilled from the bench, ran onto the field, and the coach ran with them. The crowd was roaring. The whistle had blown. A crowd of men, jumping, hugging, shouting.

  The manager, hustling in, pulling Harlan out of the mob.

  “What?” he shouted. “I’m fine. I’m good.” He didn’t know if he was or not. The adrenaline was too strong for that.

  The trainer put his mouth to Harlan’s ear and yelled the words. “Jennifer’s at the hospital. She’s having the baby.”

  Somehow, he made it. He’d tossed his helmet, but he was still in his uniform. Still in his pads. Pulling a gown over the whole thing, wrenching off his cleats and being handed a pair of blue booties instead. Washing his hands, then washing them again, because he was going to be touching his son.

  Down the hall and into a room, following the nurse, praying that he wouldn’t be too late.

  Jennifer, sitting nearly upright on the bed with Dyma supporting her, her hands behind her knees, calling out with pain that sounded like agony.

  He got there fast.

  Dyma said, “Thank … god.”

  He agreed. He said, “I’ve got this,” got behind Jennifer on the bed, took her shoulders in his hands, kept her upright, and said, “Doing great, baby. You’re doing great. Push.”

  Ten more agonizing seconds, and she was lying back against him, panting, shaking. Saying, “H-Harlan?”

  He kissed her hair, which was damp with sweat. “Yeah. I’m still in my pads.” He could feel her laugh, and he smiled, too. “Got here just as fast as I could. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, you know,” she said, the words coming out in jerks. “Hurting. He’s two weeks … early. How can his head be this big?”

  He smiled again, and kissed her again, too, then asked the doctor, “We close?”

  “We sure are,” she said. “Another push, Jennifer, and we’ll have a head. I can see hair. He’s ready to come. Another push, and you’ve got him.”

  She was tensing again, her belly rigid, and he could feel the contraction building in her with every second. She said, “Good … catch.” And then she pushed. And wailed. And cried.

  Nicholas Layne Kristiansen came into the world kicking. Seven pounds, fourteen ounces of baby boy. The doctor laid him on Jennifer’s belly, and her hands came out to cradle him. His eyes opened, and he blinked and curled into her. And Harlan put his hand over both of them and thought, My son. His hand was shaking as much as Jennifer’s, and he was laughing, and he
was crying, too. And he didn’t care.

  He said, “He’s beautiful, baby. He’s perfect. And I love you. I’m going to do this right, I promise. I’ve got this.”

  She smiled, absolutely shakily. Lying back now, all of her cold and shaking and hurting. She opened her gold eyes, moved her hand so it held his, and said, “I know. You’re going to be … such a good father. Your mom would be … so proud. She sees. She knows. And she’s so proud.”

  “So is yours,” he said, “because you’re amazing.” Wishing for better words. Wishing he could tell her everything he felt inside.

  Never mind. You have your whole life to show her. And you’re going to do it.

  The doctor said, “Want to come cut the cord, Dad?”

  He did.

  Explore More

  Global Suites, El Monte Sagrado Resort, Taos

  Harlan’s rental house

  Harlan and Jennifer’s new house

  Jennifer’s edgy necklace

  Jennifer’s cuff bracelet

  Jennifer’s engagement ring

  Links

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  Also By Rosalind James

  The Portland Devils series

  Dakota & Blake’s story: SILVER-TONGUED DEVIL

  Beth & Evan’s story: NO KIND OF HERO

  Jennifer & Harlan’s story: SHAME THE DEVIL

  The New Zealand Ever After series

  Karen & Jax’s story: KIWI RULES