“Not all of it.”
“Not all of it, huh?” I murmured, pressing my lips to her temple. “Good to know the exceptions list includes me.”
She huffed a laugh against me, a tiny sound that rattled in my chest. Her warmth was intoxicating, addictive. I kept her there, wanting this moment to just last forever. No convention, no playoffs, just this bubble of… whatever this was.
After a beat, Sage pushed up just enough to look me in the eye. “Blow off the next game.”
“Huh?”
“Come with me to Denver.”
The proposition sat in the air, tempting and ridiculous and impossible all at the same time. She wanted me there with her so she didn’t have to miss me. Sweet. But also—
“No,” I said finally.
Her brows pulled together. “No? Just like that?”
I couldn’t look her in the eyes when I said, “I’ve never missed a game, Sage, and I’m not gonna start now.”
22
Sage
Ink buzzed through the air of the main hall. A low, insistent whine carried on the smell of antiseptic and coffee mixed into something that was almost comforting. I crouched over a client’s arm, my booth one in a long row of tattoo artists from all over the country.
“This doesn’t bother you?” She was obviously referring to the constant movement around us. Voices, passing footsteps, some people stopping to track my needle as though it were performance art instead of… Well, just me doing my job.
“I’m okay. We’re almost done here.”
I passed the machine to my other hand for a second, and flexed my fingers to stave off the cramp threatening the back of my wrist. Martha made the sixth tattoo of the day, and I was beginning to feel it. The load I was used to. The obligation to be personable, on the other hand…
My needle traced the final line on her requested tribal band (probably the ten millionth of the day in this convention center), and I let the machine die.
Without the hypnotic buzz to soothe me, the room started crowding in to get my edges just jittery enough to make me aware of it. How out of my element I was.
“No offense, but you don’t look okay,” Martha said, sliding off her chair.
I’d been at this for hours; what did she expect? But I smiled, giving my hand another shake before stretching my fingers.
“I’ll be fine,” I said with a forced smile. “A stiff drink and cold sheets, and I’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
God, I hated small talk.
Thankfully, she seemed satisfied that I’d survived the day and disappeared into the river of denim, graphic tees, and hair in every color imaginable. The floor was electric with energy, but I existed in my little orbit of ink and steady lines. If I’d spoken to one other artist since arriving, it would’ve been a lot. I was sure the guys would roast me about that back home. But I wasn’t here to make friends. The whole point was to watch, learn, and showcase a little bit of what I could do.
“Sage Robinson?”
I didn’t look up from the portable sink where I’d been cleaning my machine. “Sorry, shop’s closed for the day.”
“Good.”
Good?
My stomach flipped over when I turned to see who I’d just blown off in not the most polite way. Dominic Vega. Only one of the best artists in the world, and co-chair of the international committee running this convention. The short-circuit in my brain did little to help. I just stood there and gaped at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“I know I’m barging in on you,” he said, sounding apologetic when I was the one who’d acted like a dick just now. “And I know your hand must be killing you.”
“I’m okay,” I managed, an echo of my earlier lie to Martha.
