“Is it?” She pulls her hand back and keeps walking.
I should be annoyed. Any other person would be annoyed. Instead, I’m grinning like an idiot.
“You really don’t know who I am,” I say. It isn’t a question.
“Should I?”
“I’m number thirty. Starting pitcher. The guy who just won the game that everyone in the stadium was losing their minds over.”
Ava stops walking and turns to face me fully. I expect recognition to dawn, maybe even an apology for being rude to someone semi-famous.
Instead, she says, “Okay. And?”
“And… nothing. Just making conversation.”
“Congratulations on your game, Reece,” she says, as if she’s congratulating someone on successfully using a microwave. “Have a good night.” She turns and keeps walking, disappearing around the corner before I can come up with a response.
I stand there in the empty street, duffel bag hanging from one shoulder, and realize I’m still smiling.
What the hell just happened?
By the time I get home to my downtown penthouse that costs more than most people make in five years, I still can’t shake the image of her dismissive eyebrow raise.
I drop my bag by the door, grab a beer from the refrigerator, and collapse onto the couch. My phone is already blowing up with the usual post-game messages, congratulations from friends, thirsty texts from women I’ve hooked up with once or twice, and memes from teammates about Webb’s strikeout.
I scroll through them all without responding.
You really don’t know who I am.
Should I?
It was meant as a flex, not in a douchey way, just stating a fact. I’m Reece Steele. I’ve been on the cover ofSports Illustratedtwice. There are endorsement deals with Nike and Gatorade, plastering my face everywhere. My name is on the back of half the jerseys in the stadium tonight.
And she doesn’t give a single shit.
It’s…refreshing? Annoying? Both?
I take a long pull from my beer and stare at the city lights outside my floor-to-ceiling windows. The high of the win has already faded, replaced by the familiar restlessness that’s been dogging me for months. Another game, another victory, another night alone in an apartment that feels more like a hotel room than a home.
Maybe that’s the problem. Everything has gotten too easy. Too predictable.
I need something I can’t strike out in three pitches.
And for some reason, my brain keeps circling back to a tattoo artist with an unimpressed eyebrow and zero interest in my baseball career.
Dangerous, a voice in my head warns.You don’t need complications right now.
No. I definitely don’t.
But damn if I’m not already wondering when I’ll see her again.
Chapter Two
Ava Bishop
Tattoo Artist
The needle hums against skin, and everything else falls away. This is my meditation. My church. The place where my hand is steadiest and my mind goes quiet. Outside, the world can throw whatever chaos it wants at me, but inside Ink District Studio, I’m in complete control.
