I’m not happy about the loss to the Columbus Hawks. With home-ice advantage, we should have stomped our challenger as they’re struggling with injuries this season. Instead, they had one of those perfect games, and we were very imperfect. It happens.
We got our asses kicked 3–0, and everyone’s in a shitty mood. The only good thing about it is no one’s expecting me to go out for beers after. We don’t usually go out after a loss, preferring to head home and lick our wounds in private, but the guys have rallied around my love life to cheer me on in my quest to win Stevie back. I thought for sure there would be an invitation to get together and brainstorm over drinks.
Perhaps even an offer to storm Jerry’s Bar for me to make my stand.
Although I’d love them for the offer, I’d decline. I have other plans tonight.
I’m meeting Carmine Betta, and there’s no telling what’s going to happen.
I had thought about finding the journalist and kicking his ass. Not for the article… I get being a public figure means things will be written about me. Not even for the slanted reporting.
I’m enraged that he took Stevie’s journal and used her private words without permission. He violated her, and I want to make him pay with blood.
But cooler heads prevailed, namely one John Kisner who, as he was working on my very painful rib tattoo last night, told me the best way to get it back was with the promise of something he can’t pass up.
It was easy enough to get Betta’s phone number, and he returned my call within five minutes of me leaving a voicemail.
“Mr. Bateman… is this call on the record?” he asked, assuming I was calling about the article.
“It’s not, but I’d like to meet.”
The man couldn’t contain his excitement. “Will you give me a quote I can use?”
“On one condition,” I said. “I want the journal back.”
There was dead silence, and I waited for him to parcel out how badly he needed to keep it.
I pressed him hard. “That journal is important to Stevie Kisner. She’s been journaling her whole life. You’re not just holding a few facts about the Titans, you’re holding a chunk of her memories. She deserves to have it back.”
There was a very long pause before he said, “If you give me a recorded quote I can use, I’ll give you the journal.”
I had to control my anger because he acted like it was his property. It’s not. It was stolen, and he had no right to it. I could go to the police, but this way will be quicker and honestly… more fun.
We made plans to meet tonight after the game at an independent coffee shop about two blocks from the arena where I’ve been before. I easily identify him from his picture that accompanied the article.
He stands from a back corner booth and I walk that way. His hand comes out and I’m loath to shake it, but I’m playing nice until that journal is in my possession.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Carmine says, pumping my hand hard. “Sorry about the game tonight. Want me to get you a coffee or anything?”
“I’m good, man. Thanks for meeting me.”
Carmine laughs and motions toward the booth. “Like I’d pass up an interview with Hendrix Bateman.”
“This isn’t an interview,” I say, making sure he’s clear as we both slide in.
“But I get a quote from you,” he presses.
“Yeah… I’ll give you a quote. But I want the journal.”
“Quote first,” he says, pulling a handheld recorder out of his shirt pocket and placing it on the table.
“Journal first. And I’ll remind you that it’s stolen property. I could just as easily call the police. I could call the newspaper and threaten a defamation lawsuit. I could pull your scrawny ass out of this booth and stomp it for what you did to her. But I’m willing to give you an on-the-record quote if you just hand over the fucking journal.”
“Fine,” he grumbles and reaches into an olive-green canvas satchel sitting beside him. He pulls out Stevie’s brown leather journal missing the page she gave to me, predicting we would fall in love.
I itch to lunge across the table for it, but I wait for him to offer it to me. He lets it go without hesitation. When it’s firmly in my grasp, a wave of giddiness hits me that I’ve recovered this for Stevie, but it’s quashed when he pushes the red button on the recorder. “This is Carmine Betta, and it’s December 30. I’m with Hendrix Bateman of the Pittsburgh Titans, and we are on the record. Hendrix… you’ve promised a quote regarding the article that was released last Friday. What was your reaction?”
Keeping the journal firm in my hand, I lean forward so the recorder has no problem picking up my voice. “My reaction? Well, I guess I’m mostly shocked that you’d use stolen personal property with private information you had no permission to use—”
Carmine makes a grab for the recorder to turn it off. My hand flies out, grabbing him by the wrist, and I hold it tight as I continue. “However, that aside, I’d like to say formally, on the record and on behalf of the Titans’ organization, the inaccuracies you reported and the exploitative slant you applied doesn’t touch a single person you wrote about. They’re all good people—including me—and the fans of Pittsburgh know that. I think it was clear by the number of comments denouncing your attempt to discredit us that you’re nothing but a wannabe journalist, and I expect the only reason you’re here right now is that the National Enquirer didn’t want you.”
I release Carmine’s wrist, and he slumps back in his seat, mouth hanging in shock. I reach down, turn off the recorder, and slide out of the booth. “You have my permission to print that word for word.”
He won’t, though.
I head out of the coffee shop and back to the players’ parking lot at the arena.
Next stop… Jerry’s Bar.
♦
Taking a deep breath, I tuck the journal inside my coat and zip it up. The style has a fitted waist so the book won’t slide out.
It would be so easy to walk in and flash the journal at Stevie, be the hero, and have her forgive me. But I need her to hear me without that prize dazzling her.
Opening the door, I’m not surprised to find the usual crew of tough-looking bikers. My eyes go to the very end of the bar where John usually sits, and I’m oddly comforted that he’s there. He made it clear he wasn’t going to help me, but he’s full of shit. He already has, just by the advice he gave on how to handle the reporter.
My gaze slides behind the bar and lands on Stevie, looking so much like that first night I met her. Looking so rocker chick, but I know how sweet she is under the dark eye makeup, nose piercing, and sexy tattoos.
Just as I’m aware that it’s important I play this right. This isn’t my only shot, and John warned me it might take awhile before Stevie thaws. I might even have to start over from square one.
But I want this done.
I want her forgiveness for the way I treated her, and I want her to love me again.
Not sure how she knows I’m standing here, but Stevie goes from an intense conversation with a customer sitting next to her dad to her body stiffening. She turns her head slowly and locks eyes with me.
Once again, they’re blank, and I can’t tell if she’s pissed or indifferent.
Quickly, I move to the end of the bar near John. If she’s going to order me thrown out again, hopefully he won’t jump to do her bidding. I hope he’ll give me a fighting chance.
Her eyes follow me warily.
“I’d like to talk to you,” I say.
She’s a smart-ass and cups her hand behind her ear. “Sorry… can’t hear you.” She points at the jukebox and shrugs.
Then she turns on her heel and walks down the length of the bar, checking for people who need refills.
I swivel to John, and he lifts one shoulder.
Can’t hear me, huh?
Knowing at any moment Stevie can sic her guard dogs on me, I pivot and head toward the jukebox. Without hesitation, I pull the cord from the outlet, and it goes silent. All active conversations die just as quickly, and everyone turns my way.
Stevie stares at me with round eyes, full of shock.
Finally… an emotion.
The two bruisers who bounced me last night are in their same spots. Stevie merely looks at them, jerks her chin my way, and gives the silent order to throw me out.
“Free drinks the rest of the night!” I yell, and the two men halt in the process of rising from their stools. “The entire bar can drink on my tab the rest of the night if you let me have five minutes with your beautiful bar owner.”
Stevie’s jaw drops, and there’s some conversation between Gary and Chris. John ducks his head, and I can see his shoulders quaking with laughter as I move back his way.
“No,” Stevie says, taking the towel over her shoulder and slapping it down on the bar top. “I don’t have to give you my time.”
“Give him five minutes, Stevie,” someone calls out from the back. “We’ll do double shots all night long and make you lots of money.”
More laughter, then a woman hollers, “It’s only five minutes. Give it to him.”
Stevie rolls her eyes, huffs, and walks toward me. She stops, keeping the counter between us, and places her hands on her hips. “Fine. Say what you need to say.”
“I heard what your mother did… how she conned you into thinking she was in danger and—”
“So what?” Stevie demands angrily. “Now you know the truth, and you’re here to tell me you forgive me for going to the reporter in the first place?”
“No,” I say softly, shaking my head. “I’m here to beg you to forgive me for the way I treated you. You tried to tell me the truth, and I wouldn’t listen, and I’m so very sorry. I let you down when I should have protected you. That’s why I need to talk to you.”
It’s a stunning revelation, and I can tell she didn’t expect it. I can also tell it’s not making a huge difference to her.
She shakes her head, as if shaking off my request for atonement. “Let’s say I forgive you, how could I ever trust you? You told me you work hard at relationships. That you don’t give up easily, and I believed you. And yet, the first problem that arose, you walked out on me. You didn’t even bother to try.”
I wince internally, because that is the absolute truth. It was such a failure on my part. “The only thing I can say in my defense is that I’ve never been in love before. So I’ve never been hurt like that before. I’m young, Stevie. I don’t have that type of experience when it comes to loving someone and being hurt by them. I handled it badly, and you’ll never know how much I regret it.”
“I’m wondering,” she muses, “would you be here saying these words if you didn’t know the truth of what my mother did? Would you ever have forgiven me had you never known my motives for going to that stupid meeting?”
I could lie to her. I could tell her emphatically I would have come around and her reasons wouldn’t matter.
But I’m not a liar.
“I honestly don’t know. I’d like to think once my temper cooled, I would’ve thought about things more deeply. Realized that you wouldn’t ever intentionally try to hurt me. I think I would have figured out there was more to the story.”
She glances away, rubs at the back of her neck. Not the greatest answer, but it’s the sincerest one. I hold my breath, wondering what she’ll do because I’ve got nothing else to offer. I’ve admitted my wrongdoing, and I’ve asked for forgiveness.
When she lifts her gaze, I don’t like the sadness I see. I know her answer before she says it. “I’m sorry, Hendrix. But I had someone who loved me once and walked out because things were too hard. I gave her a second chance, and you know what I found out?”
I don’t answer. It’s rhetorical.
“People don’t change. I don’t have it in me to go through it again.”
Christ, that’s a gut punch, and it’s an effort not to curl in on the pain squeezing my chest. I glance at John who actually has empathy for me in his eyes.
Nodding in understanding, I unzip my jacket and pull out the journal. I set it on the bar. John blinks in surprise that I completed my mission, and Stevie just stares at it a long moment before bringing her gaze back to mine.
I give her an understanding nod. She’s not ready yet to let me back in. I’ll try again and again until I get her to budge.
“Keep a tab open, and I’ll send money over to pay it off.”
I spare one more glance at John who, surprisingly, claps a hand to my shoulder and squeezes. That’s a message for Stevie and nothing else.
I turn away and head out of the bar. A few of the guys call out thanks as I move by.
Out on the sidewalk, I zip my jacket and shove my hands into the pockets. It’s fucking cold tonight, and this jacket is too light, but I only parked a few blocks down.
I’m barely a few steps away from Jerry’s when the door opens. I jolt when I hear Stevie call out, “Wait.”
Spinning around, my heart pounding, I see her there looking very uncertain but clutching her journal to her chest. “How did you get this?”
I ignore the question because it’s of no importance right now. “I didn’t get it back for you to earn any brownie points.”
Stevie glances down at it. “No, you wouldn’t do that.” Her eyes lift and finally, I see a glimmer of something soft. “Thank you. A lot of distressing things have happened in the last few days, but now that I’ve cut my mom out and gotten this back, two of the three major things have been taken care of.”
I take it as a good sign she’s talking, and I step toward her. “You cut your mom out?”
She nods. “I went to her house and confronted her. She admitted it was a con from the start. I found out she needed money, but not ten thousand. They played upon my wanting a relationship with her and used it to get me to do some things I wasn’t proud of.”
I fucking can’t help myself. One more step, and she’s within reach. My hand goes to the side of her neck, and I almost dance with joy that she doesn’t pull away. “You did nothing wrong, Stevie.”
“Even entertaining her scheme was wrong,” she says, her tone full of self-loathing. “Going to meet that reporter was wrong.”
“No… none of that was ultimately hurtful to anything but my ego.”
“I’m really sorry—”
I take a chance she won’t knee me in the balls, and I kiss her to stop her words. When I pull back, I whisper, “You already apologized. It’s my turn to tell you I accept it. Okay?”
Her eyes drop from mine and she nods.
“Any chance you’ll accept my apology?” I ask.
Taking a deep breath, she tips her head up at me and huffs out exasperation. “I suppose I have to after you got my journal back.”
Relief courses through me because she’s teasing.
Somewhat.
“The journal has nothing to do with it.” I punctuate that with a slight squeeze to her neck. “I fucked up big-time, Stevie. It was absolutely wrong of me not to listen to the entire story. I owed you that. Hell, I promised I’d be the type of guy who would give it my all, and I failed you.”
“You said all that in the bar.”
“Apparently, I need to say it again because you haven’t told me you forgive me. You haven’t told me you still love me the way I love you.”
“You still love me?” she asks.
“I never stopped,” I assure her. “I might have a lot of learning to do when it comes to falling in love, but I know it can’t be turned on and off like a switch.”
“No, it doesn’t turn off.”
That’s a damn good sign, so I go for exactly what I want. “Please say you’ve forgiven me and we can start over. Please say you still love me.”
Stevie steps into me. While clutching her journal to her chest with one hand, she wraps the other around my waist. “I love you. And I forgive you.”
My knees almost buckle I’m so weak with relief, but I lock my arms around her.
“But I don’t want to start over,” she says. I jerk back, frowning. She grins. “I want to pick up where we left off.”
“Jesus fuck, Stevie… don’t scare me like that.” I let out a nervous laugh, then take her face in my hands. My mouth descends onto hers, and I can taste within the kiss that everything has been set right between us. I press my forehead to hers. “I swear to God… I’ll never not fight for us again. I’ll never fail you.”
“I believe you.”
“But in the future, if you get into a jam, I need you to come to me for help. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
We stay like that for a while, holding on to each other, and I have never felt such completeness in my life.
The bar door opens, a burst of music indicating someone plugged the jukebox back in. “Everything good out here?”
It’s John, but neither of us moves.
“Yeah, Peas… all good,” Stevie says and then twists her head to look at her dad. “Actually, we’re still working out some stuff. It would be good if we could go somewhere to talk.”
John’s eyebrow arches skeptically. “Want me to watch the bar?”
“Yes, please and thank you,” she says quickly, grabbing my hand. I don’t even look at John as I don’t want to see his expression when it’s obvious his daughter wants intimate time with me.
I lead Stevie down the sidewalk. She twists her neck and calls out to her dad, “I love you.”
“Love you too,” he grumbles.
“We don’t have other stuff to talk about, do we?” I ask as we hurry down the block. “We’re going to have makeup sex, right?”
“Right,” she says emphatically. “Although we can talk after. Throw some I love you’s around, let out a little more self-loathing on both our parts. It will be fun.”
I burst out laughing and stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Pulling her in for a kiss, just before our mouths meet, I say, “God, I love you.”
