“My rule keeps me in business.” I start prepping for my next appointment, a cover-up that’s going to take some serious skill to pull off. “No athletes. Not now, not ever.”
“But why? They tip well, they have money to burn.”
“And they have egos the size of this city, publicists who breathe down your neck, and the emotional maturity of teenagers.” I arrange my fresh needles with more force than necessary. “Plus, half of them want something they’ll regret in six months when they get traded or injured or decide to ‘rebrand’ themselves.”
“That’s super judgy.”
“That’s experience talking.” I pull off my gloves, toss them, and grab new ones. “I had a football player in here two years ago. Wanted a full backpiece of himself catching a touchdown.Himself.Do you know how many hours that would’ve taken? And then six months later, his career tanked, and he threatened to sue me for ‘damaging his image.’”
Zoe winces. “Okay, that’s bad.”
“That’s just one story.” I’ve got plenty more, but I don’t feel the need to justify myself further. “Athletes are walking red flags. They’re used to people falling all over themselves, doing whatever they want, treating them as gods. I’m not here to feed anyone’s ego. I’m here to create art.”
“What do I tell him?”
“Tell him we’re fully booked for the next three months. Tell him to try Wildcat Ink down the street. They love that crowd.”
She gives me a look that says she thinks I’m being ridiculous, but she heads back to the front anyway.
I turn back to my station, but something nags at me. Probably the adrenaline from finishing Marcus’ piece. Or maybe it’s the fact that I stood outside Wildcat Stadium last night, watching the crowd go feral over some pitcher, and felt…
Nothing.
Actually, that’s not true. I felt annoyance at the traffic, the noise, and the way this entire city loses its collective mind over grown men throwing balls.
My phone buzzes.
Dad:Dinner Sunday? 6 pm?
I smile despite myself.
Ava:Only if you’re cooking.
Dad:Deal. Bring wine.
Dad, Coach Bishop, the man who raised me to take no shit from anyone, who taught me that respect is earned, and boundaries are sacred, would have a field day if he knew some athlete was trying to get into my chair right now.
“Hey, Ava?” Zoe’s back, looking sheepish. “He, um… he left this.”
She hands me a business card. It’s cream-colored with expensive stock and embossed lettering.
Reece Steele
#30
Wildcat Baseball
On the back, in sharp, confident handwriting…
I’ll come back.
Everyone breaks their rules eventually.
I stare at it for a full five seconds.
Then I tear it in half.
“Not everyone,” I mutter, dropping the pieces in the trash.
