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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.”
