Page 88 of Convincing the Catcher

“Yet you helped me inject myself with my insulin, and you came here, on New Year’s Day, to get a tattoo?” she says, lifting a brow. “Do you want to squeeze my hand during it?”

“Yes,” I say instantly, not giving a fuck if I don’t sound like a tough guy. “I sure as fuck do.”

She flashes me the tiniest smirk before she takes the initiative to pull the door open. When she walks inside, I follow behind. I may be twenty-one years old, but I don’t have any ink yet. Tattoos aren’t anything I’ve ever cared about, but my dad’s signature? That I can justify the needle and the pain for. And truthfully, I asked Harland here because she’s one of the few friends I have who has lost a parent. She gets it.

All of it.

“Did it hurt?” she asks, watching the artist bandage my arm. “Be honest. Because I saw you cringing and I think you hissed a few times too.”

“I mean, it didn’t feel good,” I admit, looking at the man who just did the work on me. “I know some people say it hurts so good and they love it … I’m not your guy.” I look down. “That felt disgusting, and it hurt like hell.”

“Baby.” Harland snickers, calling me out for being a wimp.

I’d tell her she doesn’t know, but the woman has had to give herself injections for years and stick her monitor into her flesh too. She’s told me stories before of ripping the monitor off when she was sliding into a base or diving for a ball and how it bled everywhere.

A tattoo would be nothing to her.

“You next, Red?” the guy asks her, almost as if it’s a dare. “I have a little more time before my next client.”

She shifts around in her chair, looking about the room nervously before her eyes land on mine. I can’t explain what it feels like to have a woman like her look at me like that. Like, in a room with other people, I’m her calm. I know Cash thinks it’s a problem—me wanting to fix everyone—but, fuck, I’ll never not want to be the one to calm her down or to help her out.

I don’t give a fuck what any therapist says.

Finally, she stands. Her shoulders square up, and she holds her head tall, nodding once. “You know what? Yes. I am next.” She glances at me, shrugging as she blows out a long breath. “YOLO, right?”

“That’s right, Catch.” I grin before sliding out of the chair.

The tattoo artist cleans the area and gets fresh supplies. Then, Harley slides in quickly, almost as if she’s nervous that if she overthinks it at all, she’ll back out. So, now she isn’t giving herself that option.

“What are you going to get?” I ask, knowing deep down, it’s going to be a tribute to her father.

Her jacket sits on her lap, and she reaches around in the pocket before pulling out a piece of paper. She folds it a few times, until just the bottom is showing, and then she hands it to the artist.

“Show them. Love, Dad,” he says, looking it over. “So, you want it just like this, right?”

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

“And where do you want it?”

As if she already knew, she pulls the sleeve of her shirt up, exposing her forearm, and points. “Right here, please.”

“You got it,” he answers, and once he disappears to get the tattoo prepared for her, her big green eyes find mine.

“You’re pretty cute,” I tell her because she’s got to be the most adorable human on the planet.

Her red hair spills down her shoulders, and even though she probably won’t admit it, she’s anxious.

“Thanks.” She sighs. “My dad always said that.” She smiles. “When I was little and I got cut from the team, he’d say, ‘Harley, if you want to make the team, show them you deserve to be on it.’ And when I was the new kid on a team and they’d keep me in the dugout, he’d say, ‘Next time they put you in that field, show them. Don’t give them any choice but to see you.’” She pauses, resting her head on the back of the chair. “His last words he said to me were, ‘You showed them.’ And in this letter, a letter he wrote when he first got sick, that’s how he signed it.” She pauses, her eyes dancing around my face. “Thank you for bringing me today because I don’t think I would have ever done this. But now I can’t imagine not doing it.”

I reach for her cheek, brushing my thumb against it.

“This club of ours … it’s a pretty shitty club to be in. And I’d do anything to make it so you weren’t in this one with me,” I practically rasp. “But I’m glad we have each other, Catch.”

“Me too,” she whispers. And even though she’s said it a few times now, it’s never been random or out in public. So, when she opens her mouth and says, “I love you,” before smiling … well, I can’t help but lean over that chair and kiss her plump, pretty lips.

Because how the fuck am I the guy who gets to hear those words from Harland Meadows?

“I love you,” I say, hovering my mouth over hers before kissing her again.