Her hand lifted off my ribs so fast the chair creaked when I shifted. “You can’t make me laugh while I have a literal needle in your skin.”
“You’re supposed to be the pro who can handle all kinds of clients. The squealers, the moaners, the fidgeters...”
“Bite me.”
She reset, machine in hand, and the motor kicked on. That familiar vibration traveled through the frame and into the air between us. I’d always liked that sound. It meant permanence. Commitment. Something that couldn’t be changed on a whim.
The first pass bit into my ribs and I clenched my jaw out of habit. Ribs were no joke. Not unbearable, but intimate. The needle skated over bone with nowhere to hide.
“Still with me?” she asked.
“Probably lost my mind, agreeing to a blind tattoo. But I’m here.”
“Good.”
I glanced down in time to catch her mouth twitch with the hint of a smile.
She continued, her hand steady against my side. The stretch of skin under her gloved fingers was firm and controlled. She didn’t rush, but there wasn’t any hesitation in her movements either.
I’d come in tonight to finish the Cup, then I’d decided against it. Then I’d convinced myself maybe I’d just tweak something old. Now, here I was, letting her carve something new into me without even knowing what it was.
“D’you guys have a game tonight?”
My head almost snapped down out of mild shock, but I remembered her earlier instruction and kept my eyes glued to the ceiling. What I couldn’t remember was the last time I’d met someone who didn’t know the NHL schedule by heart.
“Just a practice.”
The way she shrugged without stopping what she was doing meant it was all the same to her. She had her interests, knew what she was about, and made no apologies for it.
I watched the light fixture instead of her. “That’s… kind of refreshing.”
“Refreshing?”
“Yeah.” I shifted under her hand, then settled when she pressed me back into place. “You’re not circling around it. Or pretending to be interested.”
“I’m working.”
“Exactly.”
She squinted at me, pausing for the first time. “You’re losing me.”
I exhaled through my nose. “Most people pick a lane based on who they’re standing in front of. You don’t.”
“That’s called not being fake.” She went back to it, wiping ink and blood from my skin.
“Right.” I swallowed. “I’m not great at that.”
“Not being fake?”
“Not… holding my ground.” But even that didn’t feel quite right. I went with it, though.
Her hands stilled for half a beat, then resumed. “On the ice?”
“Everywhere.”
The word hung between us. We were there now, whatever my feelings about keeping shit to myself.
I cleared my throat. “Coach wanted open tryouts for second line center this season. With Landon’s promotion, Mason shifted to first center.”
