Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,62

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