I shook my head, not surprised at all. Aiden saw his world as painfully black and white. He was either in or out. No margin for error. Which, incidentally, was something I could relate to pretty hard.
“Why don’t you talk me through it while I finish this patchwork collage to distract people from your skinny ass ribs.”
He huffed a laugh, wincing when I touched a raw line. “What are you gonna add?”
“Mind your business,” I said, smearing a little ink with the wipe. The needle traced over his skin, smooth curves followed by an initial shading foundation. The smell of sterile disinfectant mingled with the ink tang in the air.
He was quiet for a moment, just watching, breathing a little deeper than normal. When he finally spoke, it was tentative at first. He told me about how he’d bombed the last game, how he could do nothing but watch as it slipped through their fingers. That he couldn’t get the noise of everything else out of his head long enough to string a couple of passes together.
I listened while my hands worked, the needle humming, the ink dark against his skin.
“I saw it,” I said, letting it slip in casually. “It wasn’t as bad as you think. You guys were just outmatched on the day. It happens.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You… saw it?”
“I guess I’m invested now,” I said with a shrug.
Aiden fought back a laugh that would’ve thrown my hand off-course. “If I didn’t have a needle in my ribs, I would’ve kissed the shit out of you.”
“You can do that later,” I murmured, my pulse spiking into a strange rhythm that matched the vibration of the machine.
I could argue it all I wanted. The man had an effect on me I couldn’t resist or deny. This development didn’t bode well for my hopes of living a quiet life, which I was sure would entertain my mother to no end. But a week ago I’d been willing to put up with that. A week ago it was worth it, if it meant I got to be with Aiden.
Now though.
Just the thought of having the media grabbing at me from all angles—angles that included my mother—made me sick to my stomach.
I adjusted the angle of my chair, the hum of the needle filling the small booth like an insistent heartbeat. Aiden tracked my movements with that steady intensity of his that could either make me melt or give me a splitting migraine.
“So,” he said slowly, clearly deciding he’d had enough of my contemplative silence. “...is your mom the reason I haven’t heard from you?”
My actions stopped abruptly, and I lifted the needle from his skin. It would’ve been too easy to lie. Tell him no, everything was fine. It would’ve been even easier to dump the whole mess in his lap and let him sit with it, but I didn’t want to do that either.
“Not exactly,” I said finally, voice even. The machine whirred to life again, and thank God I had something to focus on that wasn’t his curious gaze studying my face.
“Care to share what it is… exactly?”
I sighed, letting the needle buzz between us like a metronome counting off the seconds between now and when everything would implode.
“Talking to my mom made me realize it’s me,” I admitted carefully. “She’s not the problem; I am. I— I don’t know if I can live like this, Aiden. With everyone knowing… everything.”
The pause stretched into the silence after I turned off my machine again, this time setting it down on the tray. I couldn’t trust my hands to finish what I’d started. The irony wasn’t lost on me, and I gave a sardonic laugh that broke the tension.
“It’s your world, hockey, the fame…” I went on when he didn’t say anything. “And I get it. But for me? I don’t know. I’m not sure I can live under that kind of scrutiny, with everyone knowing every little thing about me. Or us.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was unpacking the baggage I’d unexpectedly placed in his lap. “I know what you mean.”
“You do?”
“I feel the same way,” he said. “Lately, and especially after the last game, I’ve been thinking maybe I’m being stupid chasing a dream that wasn’t really mine in the first place.”
“Never y—? Aiden, what are you talking about? You were built for this. I see it every time you play. Hell, I see it every time youtalkabout playing.”
He looked at me, his eyes filled with that familiar doubt and frustration I’d come to know, but this time it was dialed up to a hundred. I’d never seen him this… resigned.
“What if I’m just supposed to be the benchwarmer?” he said, sounding almost bitter. As if he’d been a fool to believe otherwise. “I’m obviously not cutting it under the pressure.”
The tattoo sat against his ribs, forgotten. “You were thrown in the deep end. I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
