“Hendricks,” I try again, softening my voice.
He keeps rubbing Roxy’s chewed-up ear and watching the screen, face perfectly composed. And yet I know better. You know what they say about still waters. I can see a whole bunch of volatile emotions swirling just beneath the thin shell of stoicism he wears as armor. I know he’s struggling. I’ve been there. Depression wears many faces, but once you’ve lived in its skin, it’s easy enough to recognize.
I don’t know the extent of his injury. I don’t know if he can ever play again. And having not one but three brothers play sports at a high level, I know how all-consuming a life it is. By the looks of it I’m pretty sure retirement wouldn’t be his choice were he given one.
And why doesn’t this guy have someone, a woman or man, who cares enough to take him in and nurse him back to health? What is up with that? He’s got to be in his mid-thirties. He was drafted a year ahead of my brother so that makes him around 36. No significant other? Was he dumped? Divorced? Maybe that’s the reason for his generally horrible attitude.
Before Camilla came along, my brother was insufferable after his divorce. Shoot. Now I feel bad for him. I’ve always been a sucker for a sad story. It’s pathetic, really.
“We’re having dinner,” I force out. “I made buckwheat pasta with vegetables…and then we’re having grey sole…it’s pan-fried. Don’t know if you eat pan-fried but it’s pan-fried.” Rats, I already said that. “There’s plenty of food so…if you’d like to join us, there’s plenty.” Ugh, I already said that, too.
“Anywho, I can fix you a plate. Unless you’re hungry right now, in which case you could join us…at the kitchen table…for dinner.” Yep, this is going really well. What an unmitigated disaster.
I wait one, two, three beats. The awkward silence persists so I take it as my cue to exit. “Okay then.” I can’t get out of there fast enough. Turning on my heels, I do just that.
Anywho? Who says that? A moron, that’s who. Man, did I bungle it. So much for my big idea.
I trudge back to the kitchen feeling like a failure. Sam and I eat dinner. Hendricks never makes an appearance. I fix him a plate just in case and leave it in the warming drawer. You can offer a grizzly food, but you can’t make him join you for dinner.
Chapter Five
“He makes Cal look like Mr. freaking Rodgers,” I tell Camilla, speaking quietly into my cellphone. You never know when small ears may turn up and my son almost never knocks before walking into my bedroom.
I’m ready to pack the day away. Horvat’s men have been working around the wall issue for now. I’m pooped and the bed in this bedroom is a California king with astronomically high thread count sheets. After sleeping on the floor on a shitty mattress or the couch for the first half of my life this is my idea of a wet dream.
I was doing a load of laundry this morning (darks), throwing our stuff into the washing machine when I came upon an XXL pair of black boxer briefs. The blond had separated colors, darks, and whites and snuck his laundry into ours. As if I wouldn’t notice…as if I wouldn’t notice a very large man’s clothing amongst ours. One of his t-shirts alone equates to an entire load.
I thought about it and figured, why make a big deal. I’ll do the laundry and see if it sweetens his mood. Who knows, maybe this was the icebreaker we all needed.
Allow me to kill the suspense––ice not broken. Nope. Once I had washed, dried, and neatly folded all his laundry, I took it to his bedroom, where I found him reading something on his phone. He glanced up and said––not making this up––he said, “You can put it over there,” and pointed to the dresser. He pointed to the dresser. I don’t know what else there is to say about that. It’s pretty self-explanatory.
This unwanted houseguest is beginning to consume way too much of my already overtaxed brainpower. Too much strange behavior. Too many unanswered questions. Too much of a bad attitude. But most of all, too much nudity.
Naturally, I Googled him. One of the most decorated defensive players in Titans history. Numerous MVP awards. Too many records set to count. Future Hall of Famer. His father is some big-wig in Iowa. One younger brother. An ESPN 30 for 30 episode made it sound like Hendricks was raised in the lap of luxury. They also made it clear he’s estranged from his family. Odd indeed.
There were articles upon articles singing his praises. Apparently the angry dude is a do-gooder, dedicating much of his time and money to a number of causes. The one that raised an eyebrow is his number one cause––domestic violence. You don’t need a degree in forensics to deduct there’s a story there somewhere. And since he’s supposedly my brother’s friend, I figured my sister-in-law would know more.