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"Because it was true. Is true.”
The room is quiet. I hear the faint hum of the arena’s ventilation system. Somewhere in the building, the ice crew is at work. The Furnace never fully sleeps.
"You didn't blow anything up. Life happened, and you reverted to your default." He pauses. "Your default is to manage. To anticipate every need and position yourself to meet it before anyone asks. I’ve read about your background—there wasn’t much of a safety net at your house.”
“Ha. Not unless you count duct tape and stubborn attitude.”
Odin smiles. “This woman you had a fight with … what’s her summer look like without you?”
I throw my hand in the air. “Same as it was before me. She’s got her whole life here. Family. Teammates.”
“And you don’t have those things here?”
I cross my arms. “You’re telling me I’m messed up for wanting to be with my family when everyone related to you works in this damn building?”
Odin smiles. “I didn’t say anything was wrong with you, Cameron. I asked if you think you have a life here.”
I stare at the painting of the rowing crew. Eight people in a boat, pulling in unison. Nobody carrying the boat alone.
"So what do I do?"
"You already know." Odin sits back. "You just told me. When you pictured your ideal day, you described a morning when nobody needed you. Your body relaxed for the first time since you sat down." He lets the words soak in for a bit. "I'm not going to tell you where to live or who to be with. That's not my job. But I will tell you that until you stop conflating being needed with being loved, you will keep building cages and wondering why you feel trapped inside them."
I sit with that for a long time. Finally, Odin glances at his watch. “Our time is up, I’m afraid. I have an appointment of my own.”
“Oh.” I stand, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “You meeting your brothers?” It’s weird that I know his family socially and professionally, and I’m not sure how to be around a guy who apparently sees inside my head.
“Not this time.” He rolls up a sleeve so I can see a partially completed Viking tattoo. “Getting some work done.”
An idea clicks into place for me, a way forward, even if it might seem messy. “You like your tattooer? Do they have a long waitlist?”
Odin grins. “The whole staff is great.”
The shop is in Lawrenceville, on a block with a ramen place and a vintage record store. Small and clean, with walls covered in flash art and photos of finished work. The artist is a wiry guy named Em who seems to think I’m a block of clay and he’s a sculptor. Or something.
"Odin Stag sent me," I say.
"I figured.” Em glances at my body again, not lewdly but with a professional assessment. “So much excellent skin to work with.” He gestures toward the chair. "Sit. What are we doing?"
I describe what I want. A bridge. The connection between two places. Steel and stone, a structure that holds weight without moving. I want it on my inner forearm, where I can see it every day.
“A specific bridge? Here?” Em asks, already sketching.
"Yeah."
He draws while I sit. The sketch takes shape in clean lines — the Smithfield Street bridge over the Mon river. It's simple. It's Pittsburgh without being a postcard. It’s the oldest bridge still here, one that was rebuilt from ashes. One the locals fought to save.
"That's it," I say.
Em nods. "Give me twenty to set up."
I sit in the chair and look at my arms. Every tattoo on my body tells the same story. Each one is about where I came from. The debt I carry. The people I owe.
This is the first tattoo about where I choose to be. About the city where I’ll forge a new way to live.
Em comes back with the transfer paper and presses it against my inner forearm. I look at the purple outline on my skin — a bridge right where my pulse beats — and nod.
The needle starts. It leaves a bright, focused burn that demands attention. I watch the black ink fill the lines and think about Odin's question. What does Cameron want to do in June?
