Page 56 of Praising the Pitcher

“Get up, you guys!” she blurts out, signaling for us to get off the couch with her hand. “There’s a tattoo party tonight at the shop downtown!”

“A tattoo party?” Lilly asks, unmoving. “That sounds … kind of unsanitary.”

“You’re not kidding,” I murmur, earning both of us a glare from Margo, but eventually, she pulls her phone from her back pocket.

Her fingers type against the screen, and a few seconds later, her eyes dart back to ours as our phones vibrate.

“I texted The Nest group chat.” She rubs her lips together, lifting a brow. “This is going to be a bonding experience. Get up.”

Lilly glances at me before eventually shrugging. Scooting off the couch, she stands. “I have a few already. What’s one more?” She jerks her chin toward me. “Come on, Jacobs. If I’m going, so are you.”

“Ummm … I don’t know about all that. A tattoo? I don’t know if I even want a tattoo.” My mind starts to race, just like it always does when it comes to living on the edge at all. “Not to mention there are bloodborne diseases. Crappy artists. I might regret my⁠—”

“Girl, stop,” Margo says sharply, cutting me off. “Think about it. There has to be something that means a lot to you. Some saying. Or a flower. Hell, even a cringy butterfly.”

Lilly giggles. “She’s right. Or you could be like Kolt and get your ex-wife’s face tattooed on you.” She snorts. “He’s crazy like that.”

“I don’t have an ex-wife …” I deadpan but crack a smile when they both stare at me.

Margo glances down at her phone before a slight grin pulls at her lips. “Looks like almost everyone is in.” She cocks her head to the side, looking at me. “What do you say, Jacobs? Are you down for a little bonding time?”

My gaze floats to Lilly, waiting for her to tell me it’s fine and I don’t have to if I really don’t want to. Instead, she folds her hands over her chest inquisitively. And when I look back at Margo, her brow is still lifted.

I sigh, throwing my head back. Finally, I stand. “Tell you guys what. I’ll go. One of you can drive. And if between here and there an idea comes to mind, maybe I’ll do it.”

Both of them smile before high fiving each other, like it’s some huge accomplishment I’m agreeing to go at all. But when I stop and think about it, I know it is. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of a tattoo. Now, I’m actually considering it.

And even though I’m not going to say it out loud, I know one thing is likely. If it weren’t for my time with Noah, I wouldn’t be getting my shoes and jacket on right now and following my friends outside to go to a random tattoo party.

And yet, here I am, doing just that.

“Holy sheeeeeeet,” Haven says, her eyes bugging out as she stares down at my fresh ink through the clear protective wrap covering it. The tattoo artist just got done giving his instructions. The same ones he’s given who knows how many times in the past hour since this party started. “I literally can’t believe you got a tat. Like, I’m genuinely mind-blown.” She pauses, reaching toward the bandaged area but not actually touching it. “I love the words, too, Geeg. I really do.”

I scoot my ass off the chair and stand, pulling my shirt back down quickly, wondering who will ever see this tattoo unless I’m swimming and decide to actually wear a bikini.

I chose to get my tattoo on the side of my rib cage, right under my bra line, because to be honest, I saw a picture of it on Pinterest, and I loved how it looked. And on the way here, as I was contemplating what exactly I would want to get, two words kept coming to mind. Two words that, yeah, hold a little negativity because my father said them, but … so did my mom.

Stand tall.

It’s just two, short words. On their own, they’re pretty insignificant. But together, for me at least, they run deep.

As a kid, in times on the mound when it got lonely, I’d hear my mom gently call them out. She wasn’t saying them as a way to tell me I was looking weak or unsure—the way my dad meant them. She was telling me I deserved to be out there, and I needed to stand like it too.

Stand tall is a moto I’ve chosen to live by, even in the times I don’t feel powerful or important. I choose to try to carry myself like I am, even though it’s not usually a reflection of what’s going on inside.

“Oh my gosh, the guys are crashing!” an excited Haven says before she bounces away toward the door.

My heart rate quickens, and even though things with me and Noah are supposed to be fine, part of me hopes he’s not here. Because when he’s around, all I want to do is rely on him to make everything better, and that’s not exactly healthy, especially when it’s obvious all we will ever be is friends. Then there’s the other side, the one that knows how excited he would be to see I did something as wild as get myself a tattoo. The same side that loves seeing him smile and melts in his presence.

The problem is, I’m not sure which side is bigger right now. But that doesn’t really matter because as a few more guys file in, there he is, following behind Hendrix Hunt and Jameson West.

“Party’s here!” Jameson calls out, and I think he may be one of the few in the group who is goofier than Noah.

Noah grins, but something is off about it—almost forced, which is the opposite of what it typically is, but within a few seconds, his gaze flicks to mine, and even though he flashes me a smile, it’s still not a true Noah one.

He jerks his chin toward me in a greeting, but I’m unsure if he’s going to walk over to me or not. And truthfully, he seems to be unsure himself because his feet come to a stop before eventually, he heads my way.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Smoke,” he drawls, trying his best to hide whatever internal battle he has going on. “Getting yourself some ink, are you?”