Shoot Your Shot

Chapter Eighteen

Eighteen

Jaylen

While Lucy gleefully sets up her station, I wipe my clammy hands against the thighs of my pants. Suddenly the pizza is sitting like a brick in the pit of my stomach. I have half a mind to run out of that tattoo shop while her back is turned. She’s wearing those clunky boots again—I could easily outrun her.

Running from Lucy isn’t nearly as appealing as running to her, so I stay. Soko seemed a bit more interested in getting tattooed when I told him the tattooed girl who painted the mural was doing it. I could have pressed him on it. I could call him right now and ask him to come by the shop; I bet him and Lamber have a few drinks in them and would be down to get his-and-his permanent mementos. You’d be surprised how many hockey players share secret tattoos with their teammates.

I don’t move. Instead, I quietly watch her as she works. My confidence in my decision to do this for her grows with her widening smile. When I got here, she was on the verge of tears. I want to be the one who cheers her up. Best-case scenario, I redeem myself for my jackass behavior back at her place. Worst-case, I get a laser tattoo removal sponsorship deal next week.

Lucy flips open her tablet, stylus in hand, and looks to me. “What are we thinking?” she says, taking the end of the stylus between her teeth.

I creep closer to her workstation. “Something small.” My voice is soft. I grind my teeth together. The room feels like a sauna—stuffier than when I first got here.

“Location?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t hurt.” I gulp.

Lucy drops her tablet and pen down on the padded reclining chair. “You have no idea what you want? Something cool? Something meaningful? Something funny?”

I shake my head as I crack my knuckles. “Something easy?”

As someone who suffers from trypanophobia, this is a thought I actively avoid. I’ve got some friends with hockey-related tattoos, but that’s so cliché and corny. I try to think of something meaningful. Something discreet that isn’t too obvious. What comes to mind brings a soft smile to my tense face.

“Could I get the initials CB ?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Lettering is one of the basics. This will be great for my portfolio.” Lucy’s attention drops to her tablet as she traces out a few different fonts and designs.

CB is an inside joke; it was what we called Cam. “Cheddar Bomb” was his nickname because when he was a little kid, his hair was the color of Cheetos and every now and then he would blast an absolute bomb from the point and score. It seemed like the funniest nickname at the time. That was back when we were annoying boys together—terrorizing skaters at the Ice Skating Ribbon, filling up on Costco samples after Sunday practice, and keeping hotel guests up with lively ministick games. I take a blue Sharpie to every fresh white tape job and write CB on the end of my stick before each game. I look down at his initials as the anthem ends and I touch them on the bench after every goal.

I try to play for Cam, but I haven’t always been great at honoring him. I keep hoping I can play well enough to quiet the part of me that feels guilty for abandoning him. When I score, I hold myself back from pleading to the rafters rationalizing my past decision. See! It was worth it. I had to focus on hockey so I could become who I am today—who they all needed me to be. People don’t know about that superstition. Lots of guys write things on their sticks; no one’s ever asked about “CB.”

Lucy shows me her designs and I impulsively pick the Old English font because it looks the coolest. While she sizes it, I worry I’ve picked the most intricate design.

“You should pick a place that won’t interfere with any future sleeves or chest pieces.” Lucy uses her best customer service voice. I’ve never seen such patience from her.

“I’m not too worried about that. This will be my first and last tattoo,” I say. “Um, right here is fine.” I point to the fleshy space on my ribs, right below my pec. Lucy gives me the nod of approval on her way to the back room. Glancing over at her workstation, I see the tattoo gun and feel faint. I grab on to the chair for support.

“Take off your shirt,” she says, reemerging with a thin piece of paper rustling in her hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to buy me dinner first,” I say anxiously, struggling to get my buttons undone. I feel wobbly on my feet, like my first time on skates.

“We just ate. You’re not nervous, are you? I thought they called you relentless.” She cuts out the stencil.

I gather my composure, if only for a moment. Shirtless, I lean into her. “I’ve had my broken nose reset on the bench. I’ve been stitched up between shifts. I’ve been punched and hit back twice as hard. You’ve never met someone as relentless as me.”

I don’t move. Lucy’s mouth parts slightly as she looks up at me from her chair. She smells so good I could kiss her, and she’s close enough I could reach.

“All right, tough guy. Get in my chair.” Lucy bites her lip as she motions me to the recliner. I love it when she tells me what to do.

When I hear the buzz of the tattoo gun, all the bravado I mustered up disappears. I do my best to not faint, or worse, pull a Sailor and yack all over Lucy. I keep telling myself that it can’t be worse than eating a puck. I tuck my hands under my thighs, willing myself to stop shaking. Hopefully by lying on them I won’t be able to yank the tattoo gun out of her hand when it comes near me.

“Ready?” she says, bracing herself with one hand on my stomach and the other cocked and ready with the tattoo gun.

I let out a long exhale. “Yes.” I press my eyes shut.

I was, in fact, not ready. As Lucy lowers her gun toward my skin, I begin screaming in agony. The piercing cry of someone being murdered—or worse, someone stubbing their pinkie toe on the coffee table—fills the room.

The loud noise startles Lucy and she jumps back. “I haven’t even started.” She laughs. “Are you sure about this?” Her tone is sympathetic as she rests her hand on my forearm.

“Not even a little bit, but I scored my first hat trick in four years tonight so let’s get this over with.”

I let out a nervous cackle as the tattoo gun buzzes again. I’m sure to keep my eyes straight ahead and white-knuckle the entire thing.

* * *

When she’s done, Lucy passes me a handheld mirror so I can take a look. The tattoo is amazing. It’s only two letters, but she did them perfectly. Her touch was much softer than I expected, though it is still my first and last tattoo.

“It looks great,” I say, handing back the mirror.

She tilts her head to the side and gives it another wipe clean with paper towel. “Yeah, not bad for my first tattoo,” she says.

“First!” I’m too lightheaded to be getting worked up like this again. I lean back in my chair while she preps gauze and bandage tape.

“Those your mom’s initials or something?” she asks. I fumble over my words trying to come up with an excuse. Spinning away from me, she adds, “Forget I asked. You’re not obligated to tell your artist the deeper meaning behind your tattoos.” She peels off her black gloves with a snap and tosses them into the trash.

“I don’t like to talk about it, so thanks for understanding.”

I feel bad lying to her, but I’m not ready to tell her about Cam—not so soon after finally getting back on her good side. She’s so naturally confident; I don’t want her to know how much of my confidence I have to fake.

I grab Lucy’s wrist before she can pull away from me. Maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through my entire body, or her cold hand against my hot skin for the past twenty minutes—whatever it is, I need to get something off my chest and I’m not leaving until I say what I came here to say.

“I’m sorry for what I did back at your place. I was a dick to you and your cat. You’ve been extremely helpful and accommodating to me with all these good-luck texts, and you didn’t deserve how I treated you—you both didn’t deserve it.” My eye contact does not waver. I don’t stutter a word.

“Sailor kind of deserved it. But I appreciate that.” Lucy cups my cheek with her free hand. Her cold palm feels refreshing against my flushed skin. I want to close my eyes and sink into it like the cold side of a pillowcase and fall asleep.

“Are we cool?” I ask, looking up at her.

“Yeah, we’re cool.” She gives me three playful smacks on my cheek, awakening me from my daydream. She grabs her phone off the desk behind her. “As long as you let me take a few pictures of your new ink for my portfolio of course.”