In The Seam (San Antonio Surge #6)

1 - Aiden

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.”

Landon obliged wholeheartedly, and the studio answered with a harmony of wolf whistles.

“Compensating,” Mason muttered from his station. Not so much as a flinch as the needle broke his skin.

Josie weaved through it all, her phone poised for the perfect shot at all times. “This is what champions look like. Look at this lineup.”

Champions.

I veered out of frame when she swung her phone around, pretending to get a closer look at the pictures on the wall. I didn’t feel like a champion. Not now, not when that horn sounded, and the team got to lift the cup for a second year in a row.

Time slipped away. More names got called behind me, and my heart rate sped up the closer it got to my turn.

“Can’t hide forever, Santos,” Grayson called.

It was just him standing there, and I went over. “Not hiding, just figured I’d wait like a normal person instead of fighting about my place in line like a bunch of kindergarteners.”

He laughed, recognition glinting in his eyes. “Tell me about it. So what are you thinking? Calf, bicep…?”

“I’m gonna go forehead. Really commit.”

The thing was, I hadn’t thought about it at all. Everyone else talked about placement, visibility, flex points. How it would look in summer photos. All I could think about was the games I never played. The way my name stayed lower on that lineup card, even when my legs were fresh.

“Sorry for the wait. I’m ready.”

It wasn’t her face at first. That came later. It was hearing a woman’s voice in the mix of whirring machines and a bunch of guys incessantly ragging each other that made my head snap toward the back of the studio.

She’d popped out from behind one of the privacy curtains, brown hair twisted up and secured with a pencil.

Curious eyes looked between Grayson and me in a way that was both unimpressed and intense at the same time.

The piercings made her look even more intimidating.

There were several in her ears, of course, but she also had one in her eyebrow, nose, and that center gap where her bottom lip ended and her chin began.

The studio dipped half a notch in volume. Because we were all looking at her. Band t-shirt cropped just enough to spare a glimpse of her torso, cuffed blue jeans that had seen better days, and a pair of moody combat boots to drive home the “zero fucks” attitude.

Tucker whistled low under his breath. “Should’ve held out five minutes more.”

“You take it.” Grayson slapped me on the back.

I nodded and crossed the floor before my brain could catch up.

Her space was tucked into a narrow corner, and even though she backed up so I could pass, there was still the distinct, almost-touching that would’ve wiped my mind clean of what was happening if this wasn’t so goddamn unnecessary.

Still, I caught the faint citrusy-floral scent coming off her as I moved past.

“I’m Sage. Are you new to the team?” She closed the privacy curtain and gestured to the tattoo bed.

“Depends on your definition of ‘new’.” I pulled off my hoodie. T-shirt followed. “I’ve been backup center for going on five years now. Aiden.”

But Sage’s attention had flipped to something else. “Oh, wow.”

She came closer, her eyes glued to the existing ink etched into my skin. Arms, chest, stomach. Her fingers traced over the lines with interest, latex skimming clean, black edges, and sprays of watercolor with obvious approval.

“I guess there’s no point in my asking about placement.” She huffed a laugh. “I’ll have to take what I can get.”

Story of my life.

But I simply nodded again and settled back on the bed. Soft rock blended with the guys laughing and talking behind the curtain, making the space we were in feel even smaller.

“I was thinking inside right bicep,” I said, and held out my arm. “Above the Latin?”

Sage rolled over on her chair and tilted her head as she read it. “Paratus semper.”

“Always ready,” I said to the questioning look she gave me. Up close, her rich, brown eyes looked almost molten.

The constellation of freckles on her face danced as she wrinkled her nose. Then said nothing. Just fiddled with the tools arranged on the tray beside her.

“What? What was that look?”

She shook her head without looking at me.

“Not a fan of Latin?”

“Tattoo artists have opinions on all styles. None of which is the concern of our clients.” A light rip whispered through the air as she pulled out an alcohol swab to prep my arm. “So, where do you usually get your work done?”

“Tell me your opinion on Latin tattoos first.”

Her movements on my arm slowed, and Sage looked up at me with a sigh. “It’s pretentious. Clichè. People trying to seem deep or intellectual, or whatever. If you don’t speak the language, why permanently scar your body with it? Your turn.”

I bit back a smile, my gaze dragging over her bare arms. “What kind of a tattoo artist doesn’t have any ink?”

“Who said I don’t have ink?” She smirked, lining up the stencil over the patch of skin we’d agreed on.

There was nothing to it. I got my first tattoo at sixteen, and had been steadily adding to the tapestry without ever shying away from pain.

It was the good kind. Addictive. But for whatever reason, this specific outline burned before she’d even picked up a needle. It just felt wrong. All of this did.

“Nervous?” she asked, readying the ink.

“Do I look nervous?”

She gave the machine a few test spins, letting the tip hover over the tray. “Honestly? You look like you’re about to throw up. Something tells me it’s part of the reason you’re not as excited as the rest of your team in there.”

Astute. She had that much going for her.

“Look, I don’t know much about hockey,” she said when I stayed silent, eyes tracking the ink as she loaded it into the needle.

“But I know this trophy means a hell of a lot to you guys. So whatever’s got your panties in a bunch, suck it up.

This is meant to be a celebration. You beat out the best teams to lift this thing. Twice, apparently.”

Except, I hadn’t beaten any of them.

Grayson carried us. Tucker threw himself into blocks that would’ve taken out my front teeth. Shawn couldn’t even finish the season because of his injury, but he had more in his highlight reels than I did. Landon missed most of the playoffs, and still ended up a hero.

But me? I dressed for every game, taped my stick, and watched them do it all.

“They don’t get it,” I said eventually.

Sage touched her needle to my arm with the motor buzzing to life, her focus one thousand percent on the task at hand. Her voice threaded through the motion almost absently.

“Get what? That it’s different for backup players?”

“Something like that.”

The needle scratched over my skin and I flinched, more from nerves than pain.

“I hear a lot of stories in this chair,” she said. “The guys on the bench don’t get the credit, but a team’s nothing without them. If that’s what you’re hung up on.”

I said nothing for a beat, my arm tight under her grip. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

The vibrations coursed through my arm in sync with the quiet spaces between words. I didn’t owe her an explanation, and I sure as hell didn’t want this to turn into a therapy session. The stories she’d heard meant nothing to me, because they weren’t mine.

I looked down and saw the outline taking shape, the cup materializing from the stenciled lines as if it were something alive. Something kicked loose in my chest, and my heart hammered like it was nobody’s business. It felt too real. Too permanent.

“I—” I swallowed, then reached over to grip her wrist tightly. “Stop.”

She startled a fraction, eyes wide, but leaned back with the needle idling harmlessly over the tray. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. I just…” T-shirt on. Fuck the hoodie. I didn’t want to spend more time in there than I needed to. Every step toward the curtain felt urgent and uneven, as though I were trying to outrun the outline on my own arm.

“It’s not finished,” she called after me.

I paused just long enough to answer, “I’ll finish it after I earn the championship this year.”

Then I moved, weaving past Mason, Tucker, Grayson, and the rest. Some were still in chairs, needles buzzing.

Others lingered near the counter, inspecting fresh ink, snapping photos, laughing.

I didn’t slow down. Didn’t excuse myself.

Didn’t look for permission. I just left, the door swinging closed behind me, the studio fading behind the heavy drum of my heartbeat.