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“I fucked up four years ago with her. So I left town, got a job in Canada, and got this tattoo the minute I touched down on Canadian soil. It serves as a reminder of why I left and what I’m coming back for.”
“Why did you have to leave to do that?”
“To pay for my sins and earn back the respect I lost from someone who mentored me.”
I don’t know what came over me to spill all of that. I meant to keep it simple and uncomplicated, but maybe I just needed it off my chest… or maybe the guy really did miss his calling and should have been a shrink.
I’ve never told anyone what the ice skates mean, though I’ve been asked. As a hockey player, people don’t expect figure skates to be tattooed on my forearm.
It’s a conversation piece… I’ll just leave it as that.
“Did it work?” he asks, wiping away the excess ink on my skin.
“She barely looks at me; if she does, it’s with contempt. But I think I'm on my way to earning back my old coach's trust again.”
“Then what's this for?” he asks about the date he’s tattooing on my arm. “Is this your grand gesture to show her you’re serious?”
I wish, but this isn’t enough… it’s just the start of a long road ahead. I can feel it ever since the moment her eyes met mine that first day in the stadium, after four years apart.
She looked at me with the same disdain she did the last time I saw her on the college campus… the day before she dropped out.
“Not even close. It’s just a birthday present.”
“A woman hates you, so you tattoo her birthday on your skin forever. Yep… sounds like the right reaction,” he says sarcastically.
I know he’s just shooting me shit, and I have thick enough skin to take it. You have to when you choose to play a sport for a living. The locker room isn’t much different than a frat house and the ice is where some of your competitors are looking to end your career early.
If you can’t take it, and dish it back, you won’t last in professional sports for very long.
“You know… for a tattoo artist, you have an interesting bedside manner.”
He snickers as he starts the number six on my arm.
“I told you… I should have been a therapist.”
Chapter Eleven
Penelope
I shouldn’t be looking over my shoulder at the exit every few minutes, wondering where Slade went and when he’ll return.
Or, at least, he told Kaenan he would be back.
I sip my delicious lemon drop, which Oakley made special just for me. It has a sliced candied lemon on the side and a small metal skewer with three blueberries marinated overnight in some kind of delicious liquor.
Oakley might own a sports/dive bar, but the man has some pretty impressive mad scientist mixology skills, though he won’t admit it to anyone else.
I want to distract myself with something, so I pull out my email and open the instant messaging. I haven’t talked to Win all that much since he told me that he needed to focus on the project he’s working on before we can meet in person.
SkatrGirlPen: How’s your project going?
I put my phone back on the table, not expecting a quick response or even a response this late at night at all.
I turn in my seat and join in as we all watch Seven in the last game of pool.
“Are you having a good birthday?” Isla says, walking back from getting a refill on her wine. “We can always head back to Tessa and Lake’s penthouse and order a ridiculous amount of takeout and binge-watch the second season of Love Castaway,” she offers.
I can see the concern in her eyes as her eyebrows lift in question. She wants me to be having fun, and I am… if it wasn’t for wondering where Slade is.
