Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Lucy
“Lots of nice things to steal in here,” I say, hoping to cut through some of the awkward silence that lingers between us. My body is so tense that my shoulders are practically touching my ears. I tug at my vintage tank top, willing it to cover more of my midriff. Had I known Jaylen was taking me to a restaurant of this caliber, I would have worn a shirt that covered my belly button—or at least put on a bra.
I discreetly brush at my pants under the table, shooing off the last of the stubborn cat hair my lint roller missed. I feel the judgmental eyes of rich elderly guests on my marked body; they must be wondering to themselves why one of the line cooks is eating out front among the paying customers.
“Please don’t. It’s a nice restaurant, and they sort of know who I am,” Jaylen says, looking around to see if anyone heard my joke. “All the guys told me this was the best spot in town.” He fidgets with the silverware.
When Jaylen said he was taking me somewhere nice, I thought he meant the type of place that makes you wait to be seated, or the type with a bathroom that doesn’t require a code to unlock the door. I wasn’t expecting the nicest place in town. The view alone is staggering: we’re seated next to large windows that overlook the water and mountains. And I guess the view across the table isn’t bad either.
I dismiss Jaylen’s inability to take a joke and open up the menu, reminding myself not to audibly gasp when I see the prices. To my surprise, the prices aren’t listed, which is far more frightening. I’m going to ask the server for the most expensive thing on this damn menu. If Jaylen wants me to play along with his superstition, then he is going to pay for it.
I drop the menu when I spot the server approaching with a basket of bread. I intercept the warm, freshly baked rolls before he gets a chance to set the basket down on the table. I ask the server for their finest bottle of red and bite into a roll.
Jaylen leans across the table. “That’s a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”
“Excuse me,” I start, wiping breadcrumbs off my fingers. “My good luck has you the talk of the rink and if I’m not mistaken, the first player of the game too.”
Jaylen nods. “First star of the game. And you’re right. Thanks for agreeing to come tonight. You know I still feel really bad about your face.”
“You’ve got to stop saying it like that,” I say through a mouth full of food. I swallow my bite. “Look, you’ve been really nice to me these past few weeks, but I only agreed to this dinner because I was all hopped-up on smelling salts.”
“You sure you’re not here for the free bread? Your eyes really lit up when he brought that basket out to the table. I’ll buy you a loaf from the corner store right after this if you want. I’ll buy you whatever—just hear me out.” His voice is low but pleading.
I pretend to ignore him as I slather another bun in butter and plop it in my mouth.
Our server returns to present us with our bottle of wine. He fills both glasses and takes our orders. Jaylen is polite the entire time, with many pleases and thank-yous. I bet if someone bumped into him, he would apologize. I can’t picture him hitting or fighting someone on the ice; he’s probably quietly whispering “sorry” in their ear the entire time he throws punches at their face. He probably sends a condolence card to every team he beats.
Jaylen moves his glass aside. “Name your price,” he says, dropping the pleasantries. He sits up straight in his chair, his hands anchored on the tabletop. Jaylen is ready to cut a deal.
“This is crazy. I’m not a rabbit’s foot.”
“All the greats have their thing. In warm-ups, Wayne Gretzky would purposely miss his first shot on net wide right. Superstition and luck are the foundation of any good hockey player. Playoff beards, stick-taping rituals, lucky ties, not touching trophies. And if I start talking about goalies, we will be here all night. It’s only a good-luck agreement, and I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate.” Jaylen’s pitch sounds rehearsed.
“This is really important to you, isn’t it?” I push my bread aside, not wanting to spoil dinner.
“Hockey is the only thing I know how to do. I lost it once, and I’m not going to let that happen again.” His head hangs in a way that makes me actually feel sorry for him. He looks up at me with the same convincing look he gave me right before we stole the thirteen sign, and I know telling him no is going to be impossible. “Help me with my career and I’ll help you with yours,” he says.
“How can you help me? Do you own a tattoo shop I don’t know about?” I look over his bare arms—unmarked, virgin skin. He looks like he’s never even stepped foot in a tattoo shop before.
“I don’t know. Lots of guys on the team have tattoos. I’m sure someone knows somebody.”
My eyes get wide. “Jaylen, you’re a genius.”
“Oh. Thank you.” He scoots up taller in his seat.
I palm my glass and swirl my wine. “I’ll tattoo you for my portfolio,” I say menacingly.
He throws both his hands up as if a truck was heading into him and blurts out, “Absolutely not!” A few heads turn and he quickly lowers his voice and says with a forced calmness, “How about one of my teammates instead? Soko has a rubber ducky tattooed on his ass. I’m sure he’ll be down.”
While I’m immediately insulted by his reaction, I choose to take it out on him with my demands. “Fine. I’ll give you my phone number and text you before every game, but I’m not tattooing anyone’s ass cheek—only waist or higher. And I want Rainiers tickets for me and my friends.”
“Done!” Jaylen practically jumps out of his chair like his team scored a big goal.
“That’s not all,” I say, motioning him back into his chair. “My friend Maya is having a big charity event next month and you have to come. I already checked the team’s schedule and you’re free that afternoon. I hear professional athletes are a big attraction in this city, and it could help her raise money for a good cause.” The tattoo is for me, the Rainiers tickets are for Cooper, and the Jaylen Jones appearance is for Maya. After all, I owe them at least that. Thanks to their motivational pep talk, I was able to put together a portfolio to show Sam.
Not to mention the mural I painted exceeded my own expectations. It took a bit of time, but eventually I worked past the uncomfortable fear that I was creating something terrible. Even Sam was impressed with my art; I think she might be coming around to the idea of giving me an apprenticeship. Tonight, before I left the shop, she told me to leave my portfolio behind for her to look through. My fate is finally in her hands and now a professional hockey player will be my first tattoo client.
“Deal, but only if you let me drive you home after the game. I don’t like you whipping around on those electric scooters so late at night.” Jaylen lifts his glass across the table to cheers me.
“I’m fine,” I say, annoyed by his protective nature. I stare his wineglass down, contemplating if it’s really worth it.
“It’s not you I’m worried about—it’s the people walking on the sidewalk.” Jaylen extends his hand even farther toward me, practically shoving the glass in my face.
“You have a deal,” I say, and the delicate clinking of our glasses makes it official.
“An arrangement.” He lifts the glass to his lips.
“Don’t be weird.” I guzzle about half my glass with four big gulps.
He holds out his phone so I can add myself as a contact. As I grab the phone out of his hand, my fingers touch his. I forgot how big they were; I almost quiver. He texts me immediately so I have his number too. I play it cool, but on some level I’m happy to have it.
If it wasn’t for Jaylen lurking around me every day as I painted, I’m not sure I would have been able to finish the mural. He was an annoying distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. Painting was a more emotional process than I anticipated. It brought back memories of my childhood, my absent father, and the life I gave up when I blew my opportunity to become a credible painter.
Jaylen said he loved my portrait of him. I couldn’t tell him how much that meant to me, but it really felt good to hear him say it. It made me realize that if I can find a way to paint again, then I am capable of landing a tattoo apprenticeship.
“This is great, can I call you my Lucy Charm?” He laughs.
“No,” I say, deadpan.
“You’re right, that was pushing it.”
With business out of the way, I settle into my seat and try to enjoy a fancy dinner. “So, how’s work?” I ask. Not because I’m trying to give him a hard time, but because I’m genuinely interested in talking to him. Usually when I see Jaylen, he’s surrounded by teammates or team staff and I’m doing my best to hold it together emotionally while I paint.
“Are you engaging in small talk? Is that the type of question you ask on a date?” he teases, smiling behind his glass of wine.
“This isn’t a date,” I say defensively, dropping my glass to the table with enough force that wine splashes up the sides.
“Right. I know that. Work is good. The guys here are great, don’t get me wrong, but Coach Pete is a bit of a hard read sometimes. He won’t put me on the PP, but he’s got no problem sticking me on the PK. It’s not that I’m not willing to grind a bit, prove myself to him and the boys, but I’m not trying to eat pucks all night. I’m playing well. I think I’ve earned PP time. Plus, we want to be a playoff contender this season. I can help, but not when I’m clocking so many shorthanded minutes. I don’t get why we’re playing timid,” he rambles passionately.
I briefly think Jaylen is speaking another language before I realize he’s talking hockey. Once, in middle school, I saw the second half of The Mighty Ducks on cable TV. I do my best to remember anything from the movie, and miraculously something comes to me. “Right. It’s not worth winning if you can’t win big!” I hope it is the right thing to say.
“Exactly, you get it.” He swirls his tall-stemmed wineglass. “I know it’s petty of me, but I really hate being treated like a pigeon.” Jaylen continues to vent about work while speaking in tongues.
“I’m sorry, pigeon?” I struggle to keep up with the metaphors.
“Yeah, like a scrub.”
“Pigeons are really smart,” I say, hoping it cheers him up about his potential role on the team as a pigeon. I’m also unsure if we’re talking about real pigeons, or if it is all some big confusing hockey metaphor.
“They’re the rats of the sky,” he says in a defensive tone.
“Rats are really smart too.”
Thankfully the arrival of our appetizers interrupts our conversation; I only know the one Mighty Ducks quote and I’m all out of pigeon facts.
He scoops calamari onto his plate. “Since when did you become so optimistic?” Jaylen calls me out—and I like it. Usually, he lets my argumentative ways go unchecked, but not tonight. Am I finally getting a glimpse of the Jaylen I met at Purple Haze?
I stab my fork into a fried piece of squid and eat it directly off the serving tray. “Since when are you so hard on yourself?”
“You clearly don’t know me. I’m the biggest draft bust in NHL history. I almost didn’t have a job this year. Usually when I meet someone really hot, I’m not focused on begging them to be my good-luck charm so I can keep playing well enough to stay in the lineup.” Jaylen chomps the bite off his fork and leans back in his chair to chew.
I think there’s a compliment in there, but I try to not let it distract me from all the self-deprecation he’s serving up. I’ve been around the rink a lot lately, and while it looked like I was painting a mural with my headphones on, sometimes I forgot to charge them. I’ve eavesdropped enough to know they’re all talking about how the “old JJ” is back.
“Obviously, I don’t know anything about hockey. But sometimes when you’ve got nothing left to lose, you can see what it is that you really want.” I stuff my face with a few more pieces of squid before all the circle shapes are gone.
“Is that why you’re so focused on getting this tattoo apprenticeship?” He calls me out again, and I choke my bite down.
“Maybe,” I say, pausing to gulp down a mouthful of water. “Or maybe I want to pursue the arts and tattooing feels like the best way to do that and still have a secure job.”
“Only you would call tattooing a safe bet.”
The server comes out with our main dishes before I can tell Jaylen there’s no such thing as safe bets when it comes to art.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert we order another bottle of wine and get into a playfully heated debate over anime including manga canon versus anime canon and our ranking of the big top three. The only thing we agree on is that Hunter x Hunter is our favorite, and that’s common ground enough to keep our banter friendly.
I came here tonight knowing I would be tempted to fall for Jaylen again, and I could blame the wine for my weakening resistance to him, but the truth is that I was already warming up to him before the wine. I don’t want a relationship—I stand by that—but I like being around him.
As Jaylen hands the server his credit card tucked inside the billfold, he accidentally knocks my wineglass in the process. The glass tips over the edge of the table and the red wine spills into my lap. I jump up, hoping to avoid a stain, but it’s no use; the wine quickly seeps through my light denim pants and stains my crotch a dark maroon.
As the two men fumble over themselves to hand me a cloth napkin, they come face-to-face with my messy crotch and both back off. “Oh.” They collectively sigh at my misfortune. Jaylen is babbling out about a hundred sorrys a minute, while the server runs off to fetch some club soda.
I burst into laughter. “It’s fine. This happened to me all the time in high school.” Suddenly, Jaylen is laughing along with me until we’re both as red in the face as my stained crotch. “You’ve got to be the clumsiest person I’ve ever met.” I sit back down and dab at my pants with the cloth napkin, but it’s no use—they’re ruined.
“I’m not normally. I get nervous around you, and it’s like my brain loses connection to the rest of my body.”
It’s a sobering confession. We lock eyes and there’s a moment of longing between us. It’s a stillness like the moment before you’re about to fall asleep. I think about kissing him, but he clears his throat and I’m jolted awake. I’m suddenly very aware that everyone in the restaurant is staring at us, scoffing into their plates over the loud scene we caused in the middle of the dinner rush.
“We should go before they have us kicked out,” I say.
Jaylen is the first out of his seat, but before leaving, I reach back and grab the half-full bottle of wine off our table. It would be a shame to waste it.
Once we’re outside of the restaurant, Jaylen asks, “What does the rest of your night look like?”
I take a swig of wine from the bottle and hand it over to him to do the same. “A new pair of pants,” I say, jokingly. We laugh again. “But seriously, I’ve got to get back home to do some work. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
It’s a lie. In reality I’m probably going to go home and do the same thing I’ve been doing the past couple of nights as I lay awake in bed: I’ll open my phone and type Jaylen’s name into every search bar imaginable. I’ll analyze all fifteen of his posts on Instagram several times. And I’ll continue to scour the internet for any newfound information on him.
His Google search results are mostly harmless and hardly insightful. A search of his name only brings up hockey statistics that I have no interest in and terminology better suited for a truck commercial than a human—grit, edge, horsepower. Who cares how many goals he’s scored so far this season? I need to know if he engages in deranged pastimes like hiking or if he knows the difference between there and their. I need to know what his ex-girlfriends look like, because I bet they all look like they could make a six-figure salary promoting laxative teas on social media.
Not that any of these details matter, but when someone has a Wikipedia page, it’s hard to not look.
“I know this wasn’t a date, but I still had fun with you,” he says.
I stand there nodding at him like an idiot, still trying to summon the courage to invite him back to my place. Neither of us are looking for anything serious. If I have to be his lucky charm, shouldn’t I at least be getting a couple of consensual orgasms out of the deal? He scores, I score?
Jaylen slowly turns to leave and I have a realization—or rather I come to my senses and decide that when a beautiful hockey player is standing in front of you asking what you’re doing for the rest of the night, you go for it.
“You know what? Fuck it. Want to come back to my place?” It’s a very direct question, but it’s getting late, and we know each other well enough by now that I don’t have to beat around the bush. I mean, he’s already done plenty more than that around mine.
Jaylen hardly lets me finish my sentence before he’s nodding his head. “Yes,” he says eagerly, like he’s been holding it on the tip of his tongue.