1
Aiden
“Tell me again why we’re doing this.”
Grayson’s smile dropped right after Josie’s flash went off, and he turned to me. “Because historical moments deserve to be immortalized.”
I gestured toward his girlfriend, who was currently starting a live session with her followers. “And the audience?”
Before Grayson could answer, Josie’s eyes snapped over her phone. “Because if a tree falls in a forest and I’m not there to put it on Instagram Live, did you even get the tattoo?”
The guys laughed, but the twisting knot in my gut wouldn’t be tamed that easily. Mostly because I didn’t feel as much a part of this history as they did. Winning the Stanley Cup was the pinnacle of any hockey player’s career, sure, but trophies didn’t feel the same when you clocked less than an hour of game time all season.
“Hey, watch it!”
Tucker and Mason had been tousling in the corner about who wanted to go first, and now the brawl spilled into the room, threatening to upend the carefully decorated tattoo parlor. A sea of hockey players parted, bracing for the inevitable impact.
But it didn’t come, thanks to our captain getting in the way just in time.
“I can’t take you two anywhere.” He shook his head, but behind that reproach was the concerted effort not to laugh.
I went to stand by the unmanned front counter. Clear of future collisions, but with a vantage point that kept the stations in view. Three were lined up next to each other, while two took up space on the other end of the room like forgotten hospital beds. They were the only ones with privacy curtains, and both of those were drawn closed.
Purple Rose tattoo studio stretched longer than it looked from the sidewalk. Concrete under our sneakers, exposed brick walls that swallowed up sound and threw it back even louder. Flash sheets hung in thick black frames—roses, snarling wolves, daggers with intricate designs.
I glanced at the stenciled print of the Stanley Cup, our winning years making up the base. A bitter taste burned the back of my throat, and I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my hoodie.
“Nervous, Santos?” Landon elbowed me in the ribs. Rookie of the Year, with the stats to back it up.
“Nah, just thinking about how I had to cancel my date with your mom for this bullshit.”
That really got the guys hollering, and the ruckus shook the studio. Outside, the neon sign flickered purple against the glass, lighting up the faces of passersby who slowed long enough to angle their phones at us through the window.
“Okay, I’m ready for my first victim.” One of the tattoo artists clapped his gloved hands together with relish. His beard was thick enough to collect spare change, and the only unmarked skin I could see was on the rest of his face.
Cash Money stepped forward, pulling his sweatshirt and t-shirt off at the same time. He raised both his arms to accept the screaming adoration from an imaginary crowd.
“Bicep, I take it?” Beard Guy patted the tattoo bed for Cash to sit down.
“I guess,” he said. “But let the record show I suggested matching tramp stamps.”
Mason shrugged out of his jacket and snorted a short laugh. “Let the record show you’re an idiot.”
“Let him have it,” Landon piped up. “The guy has to talk a big game considering this’ll be his first ink ever.”
A few seconds to prep Cash’s arm, then the steady whine of the tattoo machine filled the room. Two more artists called on two more players. First names, no introductions needed.
“It’s an honor to have you guys in our shop,” one of them said.
“Bench Boy looks thrilled.” Tucker had hung back while Landon and Mason took their turn.
The stupid nickname grated against my insides like it always did. And like always, I didn’t show it.
“He even dressed for the occasion,” Shawn added, landing a playful punch to my shoulder. “Looks like he’s going to a funeral.”
Black hoodie. Black jeans. I hadn’t planned it. Looking around, though, I saw how it made me stick out among all the Surge gear.
“Can you flex again?” one of the artists told Landon. “I need to line this puppy up just right.”
