“Interesting.” She sets the tablet down. “Do you always walk into places expecting special treatment, or is this a Thursday thing?”
“Only when I’m feeling lucky.”
“Then you picked the wrong day.” She stands, and I realize she’s taller than I expected, maybe five-eight in the boots she’s wearing, with an edge in her posture as sharp as the winged eyeliner framing her dark eyes. “No walk-ins. No athletes. No—”
“Exceptions,” I finish. “Yeah, I saw theInstagrambio. Very mysterious. Very exclusive.”
“Not mysterious.Clear.”
“Then why the hard line against athletes?” I tilt my head, genuinely curious now. “Bad experience? Commitment issues? Someone ghost you after you inked their ex’s name?”
Her lips twitch, barely, but I catch it.
“None of your business.”
“Fair.” I straighten, sliding my hands into my pockets. “What if I told you I’m not here for myself?”
“I’d say you’re lying.”
“Okay, fine. I’m here for myself. But hear me out.” I lean in slightly, lowering my voice as if we’re sharing a secret. “I want something meaningful. Minimalist. No team logos, no jersey numbers. Something about control and surrender.”
She blinks. Once. Twice.
“Are you quoting a philosophy textbook, or did you Google‘deep tattoo meanings’on the way over?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Neither. I’m winging it.”
“Badly.”
“Apparently.”
She crosses her arms, studying me with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for umpires reviewing a questionable call. “You’re Reece Steele.”
“Guilty.”
“Number thirty. Wildcats’ ace pitcher. Dating some influencer, according to the internet.”
“Dated. Past tense. And the internet exaggerates.”
“Does it?” She raises an eyebrow. “Because you walked in here expecting me to make an exception, which suggests you’re used to people bending rules for you.”
“I prefer ‘hoping for flexibility.’”
“I prefer ‘respecting boundaries.’”
Touché.
She moves around the counter, walking past me toward a design board covered in sketches of wings, geometric patterns, and florals intertwined with line work so precise it looks machine-made.
“Let me guess,” I say, following her. “You don’t tattoo athletes because they’re flaky. They book, then cancel. They want something flashy, then regret it when they’re sober.”
“Wrong.”
“Then enlighten me.”
She turns, meeting my gaze head-on. “I don’t tattoo athletes because you all think your careers are the most important thing in the world. You want ink when you’re high on a win, then panic when you remember you’ve got sponsors, contracts, clauses about‘brand image.’I’m not interested in being part of someone’s impulsive phase before they realize their million-dollar endorsements don’t cover tattoos visible during press conferences.”
I open my mouth.
