But as I turn back to prepare for my next client, I can still feel the ghost of those words on my fingertips.
‘Everyone breaks their rules eventually.’
Not me.
Not for some cocky baseball player who thinks his fame is a free pass into my studio.
I’ve got standards.
I’ve got boundaries.
And I sure as hell don’t break my rules for anyone.
Chapter Three
Reece
The locker room reeks of sweat, victory, and terrible cologne choices, mostly courtesy of Martinez, who apparently thinks dousing himself in half a bottle of Armani makes up for his mediocre curveball.
“You’re not seriously considering this,” I say, watching Dante pull out his phone and scroll throughInstagramfor the third time in ten minutes.
“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He grins, all teeth and mischief. “You’ve been running your mouth about how you can charm anyone. Time to prove it.”
“Anyone reasonable,” I correct, tossing my game jersey into the hamper. “You want me to walk into some random tattoo shop and sweet-talk my way into a chair?”
“Not random.” Marcus leans against his locker, arms crossed over his chest. He’s our backup catcher, built as solid as a brick wall and twice as stubborn. “Ink District. Best in the city. The owner doesn’t take athletes.”
“At all?”
“At all.” He smirks. “Hard rule. Posted right on the door.”
“And you want me to… what? Change her mind with my dazzling personality?”
“Your words, Steele. Not mine.”
Dante snorts. “I’ll throw in two hundred if you can get her to agree to ink you.”
“Make it three,” Carlos calls from the showers. “I want to see Reece get humbled.”
I should walk away. I’ve got a sponsorship meeting tomorrow, a charity event on Thursday, and exactly zero interest in getting a tattoo I don’t want for the sake of their entertainment.
But then Dante waves his phone in my face, showing me the shop’sInstagram—sleek black-and-white photos, intricate designs, and a bio that reads,No athletes. No exceptions. No explanations.
“Three hundred,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “And you’re all buying drinks for a month when I walk out with an appointment.”
Ink District sits wedged between a vintage record store and a café serving overpriced oat milk lattes. The storefront is all exposed brick and industrial lighting, the kind of place where people come to make permanent decisions while pretending they’re temporary.
I push through the door, and a bell chimes overhead. It’s low, deliberate, but nothing as obnoxious as the one at the deli down the street from my apartment.
The space smells faintly of antiseptic and vanilla. Framed designs line the walls, some delicate and minimalist, others bold enough to make a statement from across a crowded bar. Behind the front desk, a woman scrolls through a tablet, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, a pencil tucked behind one ear.
She doesn’t look up.
“We’re booked through March,” she says, her voice smooth but disinterested. “If you want a consultation, fill out the form on the website.”
“I’m not here for March.” I step closer, leaning an elbow on the counter. “I’m here for today.”
Her eyes flick up, and for a second, maybe less, I see the recognition flash across her face. Then it’s gone, replaced by something cooler, sharper.
