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The odds aren’t in my favor.
But I like a good underdog story, and I’m sure as hell willing to fight for it if she gives me any indication of that being a possibility.
Her eyebrows furrow as she stares at the tattoo, her fingers gripping the license, but she’s too distracted with the ink on my skin to pull the card from my fingers, and I won’t let go until she does.
“Figure skates? Was this a mistake by the tattoo artist? Shouldn’t these be hockey skates?” she asks.
Those crystal blue eyes meet mine when she glances over her shoulder at me, an eyebrow half-cocked in question.
“No,” I say simply, not pulling my arm away to cover it up.
Maybe this is exactly how this should go down.
Maybe spilling it all out now is for the best.
It’s been years in the making, and maybe it’s time for her to know why I went to Canada for four years and waited for Sam to bring me back here when I could have taken several other NHL offers since day one.
Though I’ll never tell her the real reason that I threatened Sean Klein and any jock that dared to go near her.
If she finds out that a frat house full of bored rich assholes put a wager up for the first athlete who could score with the hockey coach’s gorgeous daughter on the first date… I don’t know how she would handle it.
It’s this kind of shit that made me reject their offer when they wanted me to pledge years ago. But I don’t associate myself with rich pricks spending Mom and Dad’s money and not giving a fuck about anyone else.
I rejected that life a long time ago and their invitation.
Yet another thing I did that disappointed my dad.
“Why would you get figure skates tattooed on your arm? You’re a hockey player. And what’s with the blank banner across it?” she asks as if there is a missing puzzle piece to the tattoo.
I suppose she’s right.
There is a missing piece.
“I haven’t decided what to put in the banner. And the tattoo is for someone.”
“For a girl?”
I nod.
She stares back at the tattoo, and I finally let go of the license, pulling my arm back. All of a sudden, this conversation is getting too real. She has to have already seen the small initials P.R. hidden in the dark shading of the back of the blade of the second skate.
She couldn’t have missed it. She’s too observant.
And the banner with nothing in it? I thought about putting the date I left or, maybe, adding the date she finally forgives me. I left it blank until I figure it out.
“Yeah,” I say, dropping my arm to my side.
She turns to face me. Her shoulder grazes past my chest from our close proximity.
The door to the tiny closet is still open, but I don’t dare take a step back away from her, even though I don’t know how she’ll react to seeing her initials on my skin.
I'll stand my ground and take whatever backlash I get for tattooing her on my arm after costing her the Olympic Tryouts. And the embarrassment that my threat caused, leading her to drop out of school a week before I left for Canada.
“Is she a girlfriend in Canada?” she asks, staring down at my left arm, now hanging down by my side.
Girlfriend in Canada?
Her question confuses me. I’ve never had a girlfriend before.
