I push up off the couch and move closer to the TV, my hands balled into fists of stress as the game winds down into its final seconds.
“Get out of the way,” my dad grumbles, and I move sideways so as not to block his view. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning so far forward, I’m afraid he’ll fall off.
“… and the Eagles goalie, Lindgren, covers the puck with ten seconds to go,” Denise Milano says. She’s the only female sportscaster in the league, and she knows her shit. I learned that from Hendrix one night while he was filling me in on some behind-the-scenes stuff.
“The Titans are probably going to get one more play here,” Denise’s partner, Larry Sprung, adds. They make a great team, playing off each other, but I never noticed that stuff until Hendrix started teaching me more about the sport.
I start to take a step closer to the TV, but my dad growls and I hold my place. We’re down 4–3 with only eleven seconds left.
“Coach West is calling a time-out. The Titans need one to tie it up and push the game into overtime,” Sprung says.
“Looks like McGinn is staying on the bench, and I can only imagine what’s going through his head. Despite the Titans being down 4 to 3, he played one hell of a game,” Milano reports. “Larry, it looks like Coach West is going with Hendrix Bateman as the lone defenseman for these last few do-or-die seconds.”
I hear the agreement in Larry’s voice. “It makes sense. The Titans could really use the point, and a tie would do that and give them the chance for a second point in overtime.”
Nibbling on my nail, I resist the urge to pace as they line up for the offensive zone face-off and await the puck drop. My neck aches from the tension.
Milano’s voice is brisk, following the action. “Macinnis wins the face-off, chipping the puck to Bateman on the blue line. Bateman moves the puck to Cermak, who hits Nicholson on the weak side. Nicholson shoots”—she exclaims and then her voice exhales her tension—“saved by Lindgren, off his pads.” Her energy follows that on the ice. “The puck is loose in front. Cermak and Nicholson are pushing and shoving, Lindgren can’t seem to locate the puck.”
“Come on!” I yell at the TV as the players mash up in front of the goal.
“The Titans are running out of time… There’s the buzzer, and that’s the game, ladies and gentlemen. The Titans fall short to the Eagles, 4–3.”
“Fuck,” I yell in anger, then immediately am suffused with worry about how Hendrix will handle this. Losses are hard enough as it is, and he takes them no easier than any other player, but he was on the ice making that last-ditch effort to score. He’s so big on responsibility and doing his part, I know he’ll pick apart his performance and blame himself in some way.
“Well,” my dad drawls as he stands, grabbing his two empty beer bottles from the table, “that was a hard-fought game.”
“Yeah, but the Eagles are at the bottom of our conference.” My voice is sullen, and my dad’s eyes twinkle at how invested I am in the team now that I’m dating Hendrix. “We should’ve easily beaten them.”
“Easy words for a fan sitting in the comfort of her own home,” he chides, moving into the kitchen.
I follow him, nabbing my own two empties. My dad and I usually watch football together every Sunday, but I love that we’ve now added hockey into the mix. I made tacos tonight, bought Mexican beer, and we cheered hard for the Titans.
My dad rinses his bottles and then mine. I place all four in the recycle bin and then walk him to the door. He loops an arm around my neck and pulls me into his chest for a one-armed hug. His lips press down on my head, and his long beard tickles my cheek.
“Love you,” he says as he releases me, then grabs his coat from the rack.
I open the door for him. “You still coming out tomorrow night?”
“Yup. You sure you got enough coverage for the bar? I can work.”
He’s talking about the fact that the Titans are all coming over to Jerry’s. They have an entire day and night off since they’re in the middle of three away games called “there and backs.” That means the other cities they play in are close enough for them to fly out that morning and then return home after the game.
What started out as Tillie, Coen, Harlow, and Stone making plans to hang with me and Hendrix at the bar tomorrow night for a few beers and some pool has turned into a good chunk of the team coming. I’ve not advertised to anyone that this is happening, but I know once patrons come in and see Titans players there, word will get out.
“I’ve got two extra bartenders and an extra floating waitress,” I reply, half amused by his concern because he can’t stop being a dad, and half annoyed as he knows I would’ve thought these things out. “I want you to have fun with us.”
“It’s not weird to have your dad hanging out with you?” he asks as he steps out onto the porch and zips up his jacket.
I wave my hand with a scoff. “It’s so weird, but people will get used to you.”
“Smart-ass,” he grumbles and then trots off the steps. I watch as he gets in his truck and pulls away, giving a tiny toot of his horn in farewell.
After locking up, I head back into the living room and grab my diary. I doodled in it during the game intermissions while my dad and I talked. My dad has watched me fill journal after journal over the years, knowing that I was memorializing not just feelings but snippets of my life so I’d never forget both good and bad. For years, it’s mostly been good.
It’s been cathartic to write about my mom and our struggles to build a new relationship, but I mostly jot notes about those moments in my life that make me feel warm and right with the world.
I write the date at the top of the page of doodles—the Titans’ logo, a sketch of a tattoo I’ve been considering getting on my back, and a 3D rendering of Hendrix’s name with hearts around it. I snicker as I study it, opening up to the schoolgirl giddiness I sometimes feel when I think about him.
My phone rings, and I lean over to grab it off the coffee table. I’m stunned to see it’s Hendrix. This is the fourth away game he’s been on since we’ve been seeing each other, and he’s never called me after.
“Hey,” I say as I connect the call. “How are you doing?”
He sighs, his voice fatigued, and I can imagine him running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Pissed that we lost.”
I don’t dare try to tell him he played great or that the team fought hard. I’m sure he doesn’t need my analysis nor my attempts to minimize his dark feelings, especially if he’s blaming himself.
All I can do is affirm his emotions. “Totally understandable. You put your soul into your job. I know every loss hurts like hell.”
Hendrix is silent a moment before saying, “Not going to lie. Just hearing your voice makes things better.”
“I’m glad you called. I don’t even know what you do after the game, but I didn’t think you’d ever have time to reach out.”
“I really shouldn’t be on the phone,” he admits. “I need to grab my shower and get on the bus. Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you.”
A rush of emotion hits me so hard tears sting my eyes. Hendrix coming off a loss, feeling crappy about it and taking a precious minute just to hear my voice—I don’t know if I’ve ever been that important to someone before, other than my dad, and it fills part of the hole left by my mom leaving. Often it wasn’t about me needing her that hurt the most, but that she clearly didn’t need my love… the way a child loves a parent.
Hendrix’s call has shown me that I receive value from being needed. I’m boosted by being important to someone else.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?” he asks.
“For being you. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Looking forward to it. Good night, Stevie.”
“Good night, Hendrix.”
The call disconnects, and I pull the phone to my chest, holding it against the happy thumping of my heart. I replay that short exchange and because it makes me so joyful, I know it has to go in my journal.
I slide my phone onto the table and open my diary to the page after my doodles.
December 13, 10 p.m.: Hendrix called after his game in Boston (they lost 4–3 to the Eagles). I didn’t think to ask him exactly where he was standing, but I imagine maybe it was just outside the locker room as I couldn’t hear any background noise. He was bummed by the loss and knowing him, he probably carries the responsibility on his shoulders. He called to let me know he was thinking of me. He said my voice made him feel better. I know I shouldn’t be that enamored by such simple words, but they make me feel so valued.
I wasn’t looking to do so, and didn’t think it possible, but wow… I’m falling for this guy and falling hard.
And as is my habit, I flip backward and read my last few entries. They’re mostly about Hendrix. I went to another home game—this time with Harlow—and then after the game, back to Hendrix’s place where his foreplay was so damn intense, I was practically crying for him to fuck me. My skin tingles from the memory of it as I read my recounting.
The entry before that, when we went to Mario’s and that woman offered him a threesome, and while I don’t know exactly what he said, it was enough to turn my dad into Team Hendrix.
The man turned down a night of wild sex with two women because something about me appeals more.
Another entry was me calling my mom to check in on her. I told her I’d listed my car for sale and would be able to pull some money off my credit card for her. She was incredibly grateful and cried. I memorialized the emotions in that phone call, and I’m shocked to realize they’re similar to how Hendrix made me feel tonight.
The powerful rush of being essential to someone in some way. Granted, I can clearly distinguish that these feelings for Hendrix all come from a positive place, right from the start.
With my mom, it’s not about trying to heal what’s broken between us but to create something positive enough for me to continue in my quest to forge a relationship with her. Maybe to make up for her abandoning me before.
I close my journal with the pen on the inside and set it on the table. I flip through my texts, responding to a few inquiries about my car, offers significantly less than what I posted it for. I can’t afford to come down on the price too much, but I do let them know it’s slightly negotiable.
My phone rings again, but there’s no surge of excitement that it might be Hendrix when my mom’s photo appears on the screen.
There is a quiet, low-key happiness to hear from her, though. “Hi, Mom.”
“Stevie,” she exclaims, her voice quavering with elation.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve found the solution to my problem,” she gushes.
I sit up straighter on the couch as I’m all about solutions that will prevent me selling my car or going into debt on my credit card. “What is it?”
“Okay… get this… Randy’s cousin knows this guy who’s a freelance journalist, and he’s willing to pay big money for news stories. Like, a good story can easily get us out of hot water.”
“So… you’re going to give them a story about the money laundering?” I ask hesitantly, thinking this is a horrible idea.
“No, silly,” she coos into the phone. “I want you to give them a story.”
“Me? Why would I have anything of interest?”
“Stevie,” my mom admonishes. “Come on. You only happen to be dating one of the most interesting men in Pittsburgh. One of the Lucky Three.”
For a split second, I don’t even comprehend what she’s saying, but then it hits me like a massive slap in the face. “No. No way.”
“Stevie… it’s perfect.”
“Are you freaking kidding me, Mom? You want me to give a story to a reporter about Hendrix? Do you know how fucked up that is for you to even ask that of me? And besides… what could be so interesting they’d pay that type of money for it?”
“He’s one of three players who survived the crash,” my mom says flippantly. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t have some major trauma from that. And surely he’s mentioned about Coen’s breakdown last year and getting suspended. I bet he’s got all kinds of great locker room stories.”
“It’s absurd you’d even suggest such a thing. It would ruin my relationship with Hendrix—”
“—he’d never know. It could be an anonymous source.”
“I would know,” I snap. “It’s deceitful.”
“Stevie,” she cajoles.
“Just… no. I’m hanging up.”
“Stevie,” she says louder. “Just listen to me. Maybe you have information that wouldn’t be harmful. It doesn’t even have to be secret. It could be something that’s well known on the team but never made it out into the public for whatever reason.”
“In a million years, I couldn’t even begin to think of one scenario.”
“Let me just put you in touch with the reporter. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Just see what he says.”
“No.”
“He can pay you ten thousand in cash for the right story.”
“No,” I repeat acidly. “And don’t bring this up to me again. This is a line I’m drawing in the sand, and it’s not going to be crossed. Do you understand?”
“Stevie… please.”
“Do you understand?” I bark at her.
“Yes, okay, fine,” she snaps back at me. “I thought you cared for me. I thought you wanted to help and—”
“Don’t pull that shit on me. You’ve got no right. Now I’m hanging up and—”
“Okay, wait, Stevie,” my mom exclaims. “I’m sorry. I’m desperate here, and while I don’t regret putting this option before you, I understand why you’re saying no. I get it… truly.”
“It was despicable.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I don’t want to do anything to cause a rift with you and Hendrix. That wasn’t my intention. I’m just grasping at straws.”
“Please don’t ask that of me again, Mom.”
“I won’t. I promise, and I’m so grateful that you’d even try to help me at all.”
When we hang up, my bitter feelings aren’t resolved. I can’t believe she’d try to guilt me into helping her at the expense of ruining my relationship with Hendrix.
It’s so fucking selfish, and the way I feel right now, I truly don’t care if my mom stays in my life. I can’t continue to try to have a relationship with someone who doesn’t always want the best for me.
There’s only one thing I can do at this point, and I need to get these nasty feelings out on paper before they eat me up. I grab my journal and flip to the next page.
