“Then I guess I’ll keep proving you wrong.”
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m reorganizing my station when the studio door opens.
Reece walks in carrying a brown paper bag and grinning. “Lunch delivery.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“I know. I’m spontaneous.” He sets the bag on my desk and pulls out the containers. “Thai. You mentioned liking Pad See Ew, so I took a chance.”
I stare at the food, then at him. “You can’t keep showing up here. People will notice.”
“Door was unlocked. I’m a walk-in.” He opens a container, the smell of basil and garlic filling the studio. “Besides, it’s Saturday. They’re on the road. I’m not cleared to travel yet. We’re safe.”
I freeze. “Not cleared to travel?”
He shrugs as though it’s nothing. “Mild hamstring tightness. Tweaked it in the last bullpen. Team doctor’s playing it safe.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s not dramatic,” he says quickly. “No tear. No strain. Just tight. They’d rather I miss a game than push it and make it worse.”
My chest does something unpleasant anyway. “So you’re… okay?”
“I’m fine.” He steps closer, like he needs to prove it. “Two days. Maybe three. Then I’m back.”
“Really?”
He smiles, softer this time. “I’m fine. I just happen to have unexpected free time.”
“And you’re spending it here.”
“Obviously.”
It’s thoughtful and infuriating, and I’m absolutely going to eat the Pad See Ew.
“You’re trouble,” I say, accepting the fork he offers.
“You’re only figuring this out now?”
We eat, sitting on my tattoo chair, legs dangling, shoulders touching. He tells me about yesterday’s practice, the ridiculous bet Tommy made, and how Mack accidentally locked himself in the equipment room.
I tell him about my new design commission, the client who wanted a portrait of their cat, and my complicated feelings about pet tattoos.
“You don’t do pets?” he asks.
“I do pets. I just think people underestimate how much emotion goes into a good pet portrait. They expect it to be easy, but animals have personality. You have to capture their essence, not just their face.”
“You care about the work.”
“Obviously.”
“No, I mean…” He sets his container down, turning to face me fully. “You care deeply. About the art, the meaning, getting it right. It’s not a job to you. It’s a calling.”
The observation catches me off guard. Most people see tattooing as edgy, cool, or rebellious. Reece sees it as the thing it actually is and essential to who I am.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It is.”
“I get it. Baseball’s the same for me.” He reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so casual, so natural, it makes my breath catch. “When I’m on the mound, everything else disappears. It’s pure. Simple. The only place I feel completely myself.”
