Hendrix: A Pittsburgh Titans Novel

The mood is jubilant as we exit the bus that just delivered us from the Badgers’ arena to our hotel. We took the first game 2–1 in this back-to-back matchup in Nashville, solidifying another hard-fought victory. We’re almost eight weeks into the regular season and no one can call all these wins flukes anymore.

Brienne Norcross and Callum Derringer have built a seriously competitive team that has eased back into the top ranks far sooner than anyone expected. As an OG member of the Titans, I can testify that a lot of it has to do with how well all this talent meshes on a personal level. Maybe it’s because this entire organization is like a phoenix rising from the ashes that has made our bonds stronger than what I’d normally see on a professional sports team. Or maybe it’s pure fucking luck.

Maybe it’s both.

Regardless, every member of this team now believes we can hang with the best of the best since Nashville sits at the top of the league.

Because we play them again tomorrow night, Coach West has strongly suggested we don’t make a late night of it but said no more than that. Many coaches would forbid us from partying after a game, but Coach isn’t like that. He empowers us to make our own decisions, knowing we’re all adults who will accept the consequences for any bad choices.

Unilaterally, everyone agrees not to go out partying, but a handful of us decide to have a couple beers in the hotel bar. We’ve got all day tomorrow to relax, minus a light skate midmorning, so we’ll have a little mini celebration of our win.

I’m nursing my second beer, munching on pretzels and surfing my phone. I read back through the text exchange I had with Stevie today. Just checking in, light banter, wishes of good luck before the game. Every single message makes me smile.

I glance over the last text conversation with Tracy. She sent a few after we broke up, pushing at the boundaries to see if we could talk. I kept her at arm’s length, having to repeat to her that we were not happy together. She never responded after that, so I assume she’s moved on.

Putting my phone down, I glance around. Almost the entire team is down here. None of the coaches have joined us, but they don’t usually hang with us after a game. Drake is absent, but Brienne traveled with the team to Nashville, so that’s not a shocker. A few of the other players’ wives and significant others traveled to the game, so they’ve all gone straight to their rooms. I know that’s exactly where I’d be if Stevie ever came to an away game.

Funny, I never asked Tracy to road trip to a game for me. It didn’t even cross my mind, probably because that was much-needed time away from her. Time for me to have some freedom and hang out with my buddies.

That right there should have been a clue that it was never going to work.

I’d kill to have Stevie come on the road with me. Away games are tough because you’re battling that extra member of the opponent’s team—the fans. Just having that one fan in the stands cheering you on can make a huge difference. Even if you can’t hear them, you can feel them. At least that’s what some of the guys say when their girls come to cheer them on.

I can believe it with Stevie. She’s the type of woman that if she were in your corner, you’d never have to worry about what might sneak up behind you. That has become super apparent the more I’ve learned about her, which includes how she was raised by a single father, a biker tattoo artist who, by all accounts, is a phenomenal dad, after her mom decided it was too hard to be a parent.

I mean, what does that do to a child? And yet, Stevie is very stoic about the entire thing. She understands her mother probably better than the woman understands herself. On this side of adulthood, Stevie has become strong and independent with a tremendous capacity for care, tenderness, and kindness. I’ve seen all those traits so far during our deep talks about her lack of mother figure and me losing my sister.

And the thing that touches me the most, and also makes me a bit fearful for Stevie, is that there’s still a part of her—that little girl inside—who wants her mom to be a mom to her. She’s an optimist, and she’s holding out hope that maybe one day they’ll have something meaningful.

“My man.” A hand comes down on my shoulder, and I jolt to find Bain there. “You are lost in some heavy thoughts.”

“Just thinking about Stevie.” No sense in lying.

I half expect him to rib me about it, but he says, “She’s cool as fuck.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“But… she’s not here. So come join our sedate little party and celebrate.”

Grinning, I grab my beer from the bar top and follow Bain to where everyone’s gathered at the back. To my surprise, several girls have mixed in with the players, sipping glasses of champagne.

“Puck bunnies came out of the woodwork,” I observe as we draw closer.

“Not puck bunnies.” Bain nods to the right, and I see a few women at the bar, one wearing a crown on her head and sash across her front that says Bride To Be. “Bachelorette party starting up. They’re apparently staying here at the hotel to party the night away. They’re having a pre-party drink here.”

“Hundred bucks says they don’t head out as long as there are hockey players here,” I muse as I take in the heavy flirting going on between some of my mates and the women.

I follow Bain over to where Kirill, Boone, and Camden are holding court with a group of bachelorette partiers. We’re introduced, and because I’m good with names, I remember the tall redhead is Harper, the equally tall blond is Mimi, and the short blond is Marisol.

“You ladies should just stay here for your bachelorette party,” Kirill says, and I cut a grin at Bain.

“Well,” Mimi says with a coy grin. “We were hoping to see some male strippers tonight. I suppose if you guys were willing to take off your clothes…”

“We can absolutely accommodate that,” Kirill says, and I’ve come to know him well enough the last nine months to know he’s not kidding.

Shaking my head in amusement, I take a sip of my beer and angle my body to watch one of the large TVs on the wall, currently tuned in to ESPN. They’re showing coverage of tonight’s league games, specifically a bench-clearing brawl between the Montreal Wizards and the New York Phantoms. My knuckles tingle as I watch for when I dropped the gloves tonight and landed a solid right jab into my opponent’s jaw before we both crashed to the ice. It was a satisfying five-minute penalty, and we held off the power play.

“Are you a fighter for your team?”

I twist my neck to see the redhead, Harper, standing beside me. She’s wearing a barely there silver dress, sipping on a fruity drink through a straw.

“A defenseman,” I say genially, turning her way. “And I’ve been known to throw a punch or two when the time is right.”

She stares at me appraisingly. “We’re thinking about just hanging here tonight. Maybe you can buy me a drink?”

I blink at her in surprise. Not that I’m being hit on, because that’s happened plenty in my life. Being a professional athlete has its perks.

The surprise is more of a slight panic, not knowing how to respond. I’ve been on two dates with Stevie, and we’ve had sex.

Plenty of spectacular sex.

I plan on seeing her when I get back.

But we haven’t made any commitment to each other. We haven’t talked about it, but deep in my gut, I feel like she probably has an expectation for me to keep my dick in my pants.

I quickly do a mental calculation and wonder how I’d react if I found out Stevie had sex with someone else tonight. The burn in my gut tells me I wouldn’t like it one bit.

Moreover, while Harper is sinfully attractive, I absolutely don’t want to fuck her.

Or even converse with her.

That took all of twenty seconds to tell me I’m committed enough to Stevie that I’ll be monogamous, not because of any loyalty garnered, but because she’s the only one I want.

“I’m actually involved with someone,” I say with an apologetic smile.

“So?” She smiles and sips on her drink.

I don’t need to explain myself to her, so I nod. “It was nice meeting you, Harper. I’m going to head up to my room now.”

“I could come with you,” she offers.

“No, you really can’t.”

She’s the one blinking in surprise. “Are you serious? Your girlfriend would never know.”

I could be a douche and tell her I’m just not attracted to her, but I’m too pleased by the label she put on Stevie.

My girlfriend.

My smile brightens, and I incline my head. “You have a nice night.”

“Idiot,” she mutters as I turn my back on her. I set my unfinished beer on the bar and walk out.

I glance over at my buds, but it’s only Bain’s eye I catch. I throw my hand up in farewell, and he lifts his chin.

In my room, I remove my suit and slide into a pair of workout shorts and a T-shirt. I brush my teeth and turn on the TV, muting the sound as I plop down on the bed.

Stevie’s working, and I wonder if she’d answer if I called. We’ve texted a few times today, but it’s been superficial. We’ve both been busy, her running a business and me playing hockey.

But I want more right now.

We had a great meal last night, the second date even better than the first. A delicious meal, captivating conversation, and we ended up back at her house where we nearly broke her bedframe. I was insatiable for Stevie—both for what’s in her head and for her body. She’s so fucking easy to open up to, and I never had conversations like that with Tracy. I’ve talked more about my sister Rachel and about the plane crash with Stevie than I have with anyone, except for the therapist I saw following both tragedies.

I don’t know if Stevie’s the same open book with others that she is with me, but she didn’t hesitate to share her pain about her mother abandoning her. She even admitted the real reason she gave me a shot was because of how hard I worked at a relationship with Tracy before I finally called it quits. She appreciated how much I valued the effort it takes between two people—whether it’s between a man and a woman or, in her case, a mother and her child.

“Fuck it,” I mutter and dial Stevie.

It rings four times, and just as I’m about to hang up, she answers. “Hey, you.”

I can hear music from the jukebox muffled in the background. “You hiding in the storeroom so your dad doesn’t know you’re talking to me?”

She laughs, and it’s husky. One of my favorite things about her. “He’s at home, but I came in here for the quiet. You played great tonight.”

“You watched, huh?”

“In between schlepping beers. I particularly liked that right jab you landed.”

“I’m not quite as tough as you are, but I was pleased with it.”

We share a moment of silence, and there’s nothing awkward about it. I’m not struggling to find words, merely basking in the teasing. That’s sure as shit something I never did with Tracy. I’m realizing she wasn’t laid back enough to have such an easygoing humor about her. While I detest making these comparisons, they are validation I made the right decision in ending it.

Even more, I made the absolute right decision in pursuing Stevie.

“I can’t wait to see you Monday night. We still on?” I ask. At the conclusion of our second date, I asked for a third.

There’s more silence and for a demoralizing moment, I wonder if it’s wrong to wear my heart on my sleeve like this.

And then her voice rings sweet. “You’re pretty much all I’ve been thinking about. Monday can’t come soon enough.”

There.

That’s all I needed to hear. “Same.”

“I have to get back to work,” she says dolefully. “But I was thinking… rather than going out to eat, how about I cook for you?”

“I don’t know,” I drawl hesitantly. “Are you any good?”

Stevie laughs. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“We can always order pizza as a backup. Any interest in coming to my place? I have a hot tub we could relax in.”

“I could be down for that,” she murmurs low in her throat, and I know without a doubt we won’t get much relaxing done. “You should get some rest.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. How early is too early since you’ve got hours ahead of you working?”

“It’s never too early. Call when you want.”

I smile, thinking of an early-morning wake-up call, knowing she’ll be sleepy and discombobulated. I can wish her a good morning and let her fall back into slumber, and she can wake up later, wondering if it was a dream.

“Good night, Stevie.”

“Sleep well, Hendrix.”