Chapter One
MORE THAN SIX YEARS LATER - SEPTEMBER
TOMMY
“What’s the significance behind this one?”
No matter how many times I get a tattoo, the pain never feels any easier. Especially not when the area getting inked is your neck.
Lying on my side, I shift to get more comfortable on the black leather bench, trying not to let my discomfort show, along with my irritation at the incessant questioning I’ve endured for the past four hours.
My usual tattoo artist moved out to California six months ago, and now I’m stuck with his apprentice, who he assured me was just as good, although I highly doubt that—I don’t see how anyone can maintain a high level of concentration when all they do is fucking talk.
Oxygen is needed to power the brain as well as the mouth.
“No significance,” I answer bluntly.
Aside from confirming the final design I wanted, I’ve barely said ten words since I climbed onto the bed and he got to work.
“Oh, right,” he replies, wiping down my raw skin for the thousandth time. “It’s just that most people only get a neck tattoo of something significant. I guess because it’s hard to hide it on this area of the body.”
On a sigh that is designed to convey my irritation, I remind myself that he’s nearly done and then I’m free to escape. I fucking hate small talk. “Yeah, well, I’m not most people, and this isn’t exactly my first rodeo.”
“I’ll say.” He chuckles. “How many have you got now?”
Why the fuck are some people so fucking cheerful? They could be having the worst day or have the grumpiest client, yet their bright persona never fades.
It’s fucking annoying as hell.
“Lost count at number twenty-five.”
He blows out a long breath. “Of them all, I think this king cobra is my favorite. And not because it’s my work. It’s the way it snakes up your spine. The idea is right on.”
What I just said isn’t strictly true—the tattoo does have meaning, as does a lot of the ink on my skin.
The first tattoo I got—a pair of scissors cutting through a thread—was done right across the street from my dad’s apartment.
They had walk-in appointments available, and I had twenty hours to kill before my flight home.
I used my fake ID, and they inked me there and then.
It’s still my favorite tattoo to this day.
“I would ask if you planned to stop after this one, but everyone knows that once you get one tattoo, the addiction takes hold.”
Lifting my hands up, I twist my wrists around so my palms are facing him. “Aside from my face and feet, the only blank canvases I have left are these, and I heard they are the most painful and difficult area to get done.”
The artist—who gave me his name when I arrived, but I can’t remember it since I plan to erase him from my memory as soon as I leave—sucks a sharp breath through his teeth.
“Yeah. Palm tattoos generally fade quickly or fail altogether. You have to go really deep to achieve any kind of longevity.”
I shrug. “That doesn’t bother me. I welcome the pain.”
He huffs out a laugh, and I’m ready to take the ink gun he’s holding and shove it up his ass. One false move, and he’s fucked this tattoo.
“No kidding. You literally just had your spine and neck tattooed in two sessions, and I didn’t feel you flinch once. Most clients—no matter how experienced they are—would be crying like a baby and begging me to stop by now.”
“Showing pain is a sign of weakness, and I already told you, I’m not most people.”
Wiping the nape of my neck again, he sets down the gun, and I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief.
Fuck, that one was tough.
“Okay, I think we’re done.”
He slides his small roller stool across to a metal chest of drawers, and I stand from the bench, already making my way over to the full-length mirror.
“So, I went with a shading technique called stippling to create the intricate details you can see on the scales.”
The artist holds the mirror he grabbed from the drawer unit and brings it closer to my fresh tattoo.
Jesus, it’s good. I underestimated this guy.
Not that I plan on telling him that.
“You missed a bit,” I bite out.
Like he just found out his puppy died, the guy flares his eyes wide before carefully examining each section of the snake.
I turn to face him, a usual smirk overtaking my expression. “I’m just fucking with you. It’s a good piece.”
He wipes above his brow, genuine perspiration emerging. “Holy shit, you sounded serious. Like, deadass pissed.”
“Nah. You’ll know when I’m pissed. That was my friendly voice,” I reply, taking a seat back on the bench so he can wrap the tattoo.
He doesn’t respond as he begins treating and bandaging.
“I gotta admit …” To my surprise, he begins talking. Again. “I was a bit taken aback when you booked in for September. Don’t you guys have preseason now? I thought getting tatted was only allowed in the offseason?”
I can’t help the groan as it leaves my throat. Tipping my chin over my shoulder, I raise a brow in his direction. “Tell me you don’t watch hockey without telling me you don’t watch hockey.”
He snaps a piece of medical tape from its holder. “I don’t follow.”
My smirk returns, even though he can’t see it clearly. “Because if you watched the game, you’d know I’m not the kind of player who follows the rules.”
He snorts, securing the wrap against my skin. “Oh, I don’t need to watch it to know that. The second my new boss found out who we had booked, he told me to watch my mouth.”
I like this guy’s new boss, and I haven’t even met him.
“He also told me your dad liked getting under people’s skin when he played too.” He laughs again at a thought. “I tattoo people, and you punch them. Looks like we share something in common.”
When he finishes up on the dressing, I grab my shirt from the back of a chair and throw it on, ignoring his comment about my dad.
Aside from confirming to the media that I was his son when I started playing under his last name, I haven’t publicly talked about him since.
The aim isn’t to perpetuate his legacy, but to bury it under mine.
“Hockey fights are a standard part of every game; the crowd feeds off them, and despite what people claim, the age of the enforcer isn’t dead,” I reply.
The guy shakes his head and makes for the counter, ready to ring up my bill. I grab my bag and follow him.
“I’d make a shit enforcer. I never let people wind me up,” he says, taking my Amex and processing the payment. “I’m so laid-back; I’m practically horizontal.”
I balk. “Who said anything about letting people wind you up?” I point at my chest when I take my credit card back. “I’m the antagonist, not the other way around.”
He quirks a brow at me, green eyes looking doubtful. “I don’t know, man. You sound like you’re getting wound up right about now.”
I grin. “That’s what I allow people to think. I’m always in control. Always. If they have a pulse, they’re eating out of my bare palms.”
He snorts again. “Everyone has an Achilles’ heel. Even Superman.”
“And like I told you twice already—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand in front of him. “You’re not like most people.”
“Exactly.” I tap my temple twice, masking the real truth behind a self-assured expression. Because, in reality, I do have one weakness—or thorn in my side.
With dark brown hair and deep blue eyes, all five feet eight of her crawls around in my brain, taking up space she doesn’t deserve. In the past six years, no one has gotten to me like she does—and especially not someone I’ve only spoken to a handful of times.
No woman has ever turned down an advance from me, but Jenna Miller did. I swear to God she only said no because her pretentious girlfriends—whose husbands happen to be my teammates—hate my guts.
The New York Storm soccer team barely registers on the sports radar, and their goalie should’ve been honored—no, begging—to have the Blades best defenseman show her even an ounce of interest. Instead, she blew the only chance she’d ever get with me.
“You look like something—or someone—might be getting to you.”
I come to, completely forgetting my surroundings and who’s standing in front of me as I let Jenna fucking Miller and her perfect face invade my mind once again.
On a headshake, I reach into my pocket and toss a couple of hundred-dollar bills onto the counter. “Nah, just working out how much tip your work deserves. Two hundred should do it, right?”
His eyes grow wide as he blurts out, “Y-yeah, that works for me.”
I slide them toward him and lean in a little closer. “I lied earlier, about the tattoo. It does have meaning.”
He takes the cash and pockets it quickly, keeping his eyes on mine, waiting for me to elaborate.
“King cobras are generally acknowledged to be the smartest of their species. They are apex hunters, meaning they can adapt to their surroundings and prey. They’re always one step ahead of their next victim, planning their next move.
They rarely make the same mistake twice.
” I tap my knuckle on the counter. “That’s what makes a superior predator. Once bitten, twice shy.”