Close it.
Open it again.
“Wow. You really thought this through.”
“I’ve had time.” She turns back to the board, adjusting one of the sketches. “The answer is no. But thanks for stopping by.”
I should leave. Walk out. Tell the guys she shut me down harder than a fastball to the ribs.
But instead, I hear myself say, “What if I sign a waiver?”
She glances over her shoulder. “A waiver?”
“Yeah. Saying I won’t sue, won’t blame you if my career implodes because of a tattoo, and won’t post about it on social media without your permission. Whatever you want. I’ll sign it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want a tattoo from me?” She turns fully now, arms still crossed. “There are a dozen shops in the city. Some of them would probably payyouto get inked there. So why walk into the one place where you’re explicitly not welcome?”
It’s a good question.
I don’t have a good answer.
Or maybe I do, and I’m too stubborn to admit it because she said no. Because she looked at me, Reece Steele, the guy with sold-out games and back-page headlines, and saw straight through the performance.
“Because your work is incredible,” I say finally. “And because I don’t want a tattoo from someone who sees me as a photo op. I want one from someone who sees me as a person.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes shifts, softer, maybe. Or more cautious.
“I don’t know you,” she says quietly. “So I don’t see you as anything yet.”
“Then let me change your mind.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I swear I feel the temperature in the room rise.
Then she shakes her head, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you credit for effort.”
“Is effort worth a consultation?”
“No.”
“A phone number?”
“Absolutely not.”
“A date?”
She hesitates half a second, maybe less, but I catch it.
“Bold of you to assume you’d get one,” she says. “And you can tell your teammates they owe you three hundred dollars for trying.”
My stomach drops. “How did you—”
“You think you’re the first guy to walk in here on a dare?” She grabs the tablet from the counter and taps the screen without looking at me. “You’re the third this month. Athletes are predictable.”
I laugh. I’m surprised, grudging, and maybe a little impressed. “For the record, I wasn’t lying about wanting a tattoo.”
