Chapter Three
Reece
The locker room reeks of sweat, victory, and terrible cologne choices, mostly courtesy of Martinez, who apparently thinks dousing himself in half a bottle of Armani makes up for his mediocre curveball.
“You’re not seriously considering this,” I say, watching Dante pull out his phone and scroll through Instagram for the third time in ten minutes.
“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He grins, all teeth and mischief. “You’ve been running your mouth about how you can charm anyone. Time to prove it.”
“Anyone reasonable,” I correct, tossing my game jersey into the hamper. “You want me to walk into some random tattoo shop and sweet-talk my way into a chair?”
“Not random.” Marcus leans against his locker, arms crossed over his chest. He’s our backup catcher, built as solid as a brick wall and twice as stubborn. “Ink District. Best in the city. The owner doesn’t take athletes.”
“At all?”
“At all.” He smirks. “Hard rule. Posted right on the door.”
“And you want me to… what? Change her mind with my dazzling personality?”
“Your words, Steele. Not mine.”
Dante snorts. “I’ll throw in two hundred if you can get her to agree to ink you.”
“Make it three,” Carlos calls from the showers. “I want to see Reece get humbled.”
I should walk away. I’ve got a sponsorship meeting tomorrow, a charity event on Thursday, and exactly zero interest in getting a tattoo I don’t want for the sake of their entertainment.
But then Dante waves his phone in my face, showing me the shop’s Instagram—sleek black-and-white photos, intricate designs, and a bio that reads, No athletes. No exceptions. No explanations.
“Three hundred,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “And you’re all buying drinks for a month when I walk out with an appointment.”
Ink District sits wedged between a vintage record store and a café serving overpriced oat milk lattes. The storefront is all exposed brick and industrial lighting, the kind of place where people come to make permanent decisions while pretending they’re temporary.
I push through the door, and a bell chimes overhead. It’s low, deliberate, but nothing as obnoxious as the one at the deli down the street from my apartment.
The space smells faintly of antiseptic and vanilla.
Framed designs line the walls, some delicate and minimalist, others bold enough to make a statement from across a crowded bar.
Behind the front desk, a woman scrolls through a tablet, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, a pencil tucked behind one ear.
She doesn’t look up.
“We’re booked through March,” she says, her voice smooth but disinterested. “If you want a consultation, fill out the form on the website.”
“I’m not here for March.” I step closer, leaning an elbow on the counter. “I’m here for today.”
Her eyes flick up, and for a second, maybe less, I see the recognition flash across her face. Then it’s gone, replaced by something cooler, sharper.
“Interesting.” She sets the tablet down. “Do you always walk into places expecting special treatment, or is this a Thursday thing?”
“Only when I’m feeling lucky.”
“Then you picked the wrong day.” She stands, and I realize she’s taller than I expected, maybe five-eight in the boots she’s wearing, with an edge in her posture as sharp as the winged eyeliner framing her dark eyes. “No walk-ins. No athletes. No—”
“Exceptions,” I finish. “Yeah, I saw the Instagram bio. Very mysterious. Very exclusive.”
“Not mysterious. Clear.”
“Then why the hard line against athletes?” I tilt my head, genuinely curious now. “Bad experience? Commitment issues? Someone ghost you after you inked their ex’s name?”
Her lips twitch, barely, but I catch it.
“None of your business.”
“Fair.” I straighten, sliding my hands into my pockets. “What if I told you I’m not here for myself?”
“I’d say you’re lying.”
“Okay, fine. I’m here for myself. But hear me out.” I lean in slightly, lowering my voice as if we’re sharing a secret. “I want something meaningful. Minimalist. No team logos, no jersey numbers. Something about control and surrender.”
She blinks. Once. Twice.
“Are you quoting a philosophy textbook, or did you Google ‘deep tattoo meanings’ on the way over?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Neither. I’m winging it.”
“Badly.”
“Apparently.”
She crosses her arms, studying me with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for umpires reviewing a questionable call. “You’re Reece Steele.”
“Guilty.”
“Number thirty. Wildcats’ ace pitcher. Dating some influencer, according to the internet.”
“Dated. Past tense. And the internet exaggerates.”
“Does it?” She raises an eyebrow. “Because you walked in here expecting me to make an exception, which suggests you’re used to people bending rules for you.”
“I prefer ‘hoping for flexibility.’ ”
“I prefer ‘respecting boundaries.’ ”
Touché.
She moves around the counter, walking past me toward a design board covered in sketches of wings, geometric patterns, and florals intertwined with line work so precise it looks machine-made.
“Let me guess,” I say, following her. “You don’t tattoo athletes because they’re flaky. They book, then cancel. They want something flashy, then regret it when they’re sober.”
“Wrong.”
“Then enlighten me.”
She turns, meeting my gaze head-on. “I don’t tattoo athletes because you all think your careers are the most important thing in the world.
You want ink when you’re high on a win, then panic when you remember you’ve got sponsors, contracts, clauses about ‘brand image.’ I’m not interested in being part of someone’s impulsive phase before they realize their million-dollar endorsements don’t cover tattoos visible during press conferences. ”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
“Wow. You really thought this through.”
“I’ve had time.” She turns back to the board, adjusting one of the sketches. “The answer is no. But thanks for stopping by.”
I should leave. Walk out. Tell the guys she shut me down harder than a fastball to the ribs.
But instead, I hear myself say, “What if I sign a waiver?”
She glances over her shoulder. “A waiver?”
“Yeah. Saying I won’t sue, won’t blame you if my career implodes because of a tattoo, and won’t post about it on social media without your permission. Whatever you want. I’ll sign it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want a tattoo from me?” She turns fully now, arms still crossed. “There are a dozen shops in the city. Some of them would probably pay you to get inked there. So why walk into the one place where you’re explicitly not welcome?”
It’s a good question.
I don’t have a good answer.
Or maybe I do, and I’m too stubborn to admit it because she said no. Because she looked at me, Reece Steele, the guy with sold-out games and back-page headlines, and saw straight through the performance.
“Because your work is incredible,” I say finally. “And because I don’t want a tattoo from someone who sees me as a photo op. I want one from someone who sees me as a person.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes shifts, softer, maybe. Or more cautious.
“I don’t know you,” she says quietly. “So I don’t see you as anything yet.”
“Then let me change your mind.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I swear I feel the temperature in the room rise.
Then she shakes her head, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you credit for effort.”
“Is effort worth a consultation?”
“No.”
“A phone number?”
“Absolutely not.”
“A date?”
She hesitates half a second, maybe less, but I catch it.
“Bold of you to assume you’d get one,” she says. “And you can tell your teammates they owe you three hundred dollars for trying.”
My stomach drops. “How did you—”
“You think you’re the first guy to walk in here on a dare?” She grabs the tablet from the counter and taps the screen without looking at me. “You’re the third this month. Athletes are predictable.”
I laugh. I’m surprised, grudging, and maybe a little impressed. “For the record, I wasn’t lying about wanting a tattoo.”
“For the record,” she says, still not looking up, “I don’t care.”
The door chimes as I push it open, stepping back into the late-afternoon sunlight.
My phone buzzes immediately. It’s no doubt Dante, waiting for confirmation of my humiliation.
I ignore it.
Instead, I glance back through the window, where Ava is already back at her desk, pencil in hand, sketching something I can’t see from here.
She doesn’t look up.
But I’m smiling anyway.
Twenty minutes later, I walk back into the locker room, and Marcus takes one look at my face and starts laughing.
“She destroyed you, didn’t she?”
“Obliterated,” I admit, tossing my keys onto the bench. “I didn’t even get past ‘hello’ before she figured out it was a bet.”
Dante whistles low. “Damn. She’s good.”
“She’s terrifying.” I grin, pulling out my phone. “And I’m definitely going back.”
Carlos pauses mid-towel dry. “Why?”
“Because…” I say, already typing out a reminder to swing by Ink District next week, “… she’s the first person in years who didn’t give a damn about my fastball.”
Marcus shakes his head, smirking. “You’re an idiot, Steele.”
“Yeah,” I say, still smiling. “Probably.”
But I’m already planning my next move.