His brows bounce then crash into a frown. “Uh. No. Did you?” He points at mine.
With a shake of my head, my face gets hotter. “Nah, I just liked it the day I was in the tattoo parlor. I thought we might have gotten it together or something. You know, tattoo twinsies?”
“I wish.” He pats my chest. “Hit me up if you ever want to get some new ink though, yeah? I have a list of tattoos I want to get.”
It’s never going to happen. Having art on my body and no fucking clue as to why it’s there or what it means was enough to turn me off getting ink ever again. Much to Mom’s delight.
I thought about getting it removed, but if I did, and it means something really fucking important, and I don’t find out until later, I’ll be pissed.
So I live with the firecracker ink on my skin. A constant reminder that I have a very delicate relationship with my own brain. Forced retirement is only a concussion or two away.
The doctors have suggested it over the years, but it’s not going to happen. I’m not giving up the sport I love, that I need to play, just because Imightget hurt again at some point. I can’t spend my life living in fear of the outcome of something.
Mom’s already saving for tickets to the NHL. For real, she’s already started a savings account. NHL tickets aren’t cheap, and she’s so determined to watch me play she seems to forget that when I play for the National Hockey League, I’ll be able to give her complimentary tickets.
But that’s not the point for her. She wants to be able to hand over money to watch her son play on the ice for whatever team I manage to get signed to.
The idea of skating on NHL ice is fucking terrifying, but there’s always a glimmer of hopeful excitement in my chest when I think about it.
It’s similar to the glimmer of hope that ignites every time I look over at the gorgeous redhead sitting side-on to me.
I’m going to make my move. I am. As soon as I find my balls. She’s just sitting, not talking to anyone, except occasionally the pink-haired woman chatting with Ares. She seems very…wholesome for his tastes. Could the hotshot goaltender be ready to settle down?
Almost laughable, but anything is possible.
Red is sitting next to Athena, Ares’s sister. They aren’treally engaging in conversation as much as they’re staring at Ares and the pink-haired woman.
Okay. I’m going to do it. I take the final slug of my beer and set my bottle on the table before rubbing my cold, damp palm on the side of my dress pants.
Something compels me to talk to this woman, and sooner’s better than later.
I gently touch her elbow to pry her attention away from Ares. Hopefully she doesn’t have a crush on him or isn’t in some love triangle with the pixie and the goalie. Wouldn’t that be a cool book to read at Get Lit?
Speaking of, I need to catch up on this month’s read. Dammit.
Cold, hard jade eyes meet mine, as a single eyebrow arches.
I’m about to die.
“Hi.” My tongue is coated in peanut butter, and my brain no longer remembers basic communication. Which would be funny if it wasn’t a potential outcome from taking too many hits to the skull.
She tilts her head to the side, remaining quiet.
This chick is about to rip my head off and feed it to a pack of wild dogs. “I’m Raffi.”
More silence.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
She purses her already flat lips, flaring her nostrils. I wouldn’t be surprised if flames burst from her mouth when she opens it. There’s a rage brewing between us that is going to explode any second, and I fear I might be on the receiving end of it if I don’t haul ass out of her space.
Resting bitch face is one thing, but this…this is just next level loathing. She could simply be in a bad mood in general, but it feels more like she hates men. And right now all her rage is focused right on me.
She picks up a full glass of dark liquid, maybe Coke? And moves it over my head.
There’s no way.
Except when the first drop of liquid hits my head she proves me wrong. There’s absolutely a way.
