26 - Sage
Sage
I was mid-sip of my third black coffee for the day when the bell above the door jingled. My ten o’clock, who was late. Except when the curtain to my booth drew back, it was Aiden who sauntered in.
“Uh—”
“Before you bring up your booking,” he said, making himself comfortable on my tattoo chair. “It’s me. I’m Helen Kurkdjian.”
The audacity of this man had me speechless as he nonchalantly pulled his white t-shirt over his head.
My gaze followed the motion automatically, snagging on the curve of his pecs, the faint scar almost hidden in the ridges of his abs.
The warmth between my legs reared its head to remind me I had to tread carefully.
Last time we were in this booth together, he’d fucked me into another dimension.
I didn’t have to linger too long inside the unwarranted flashback to taste his skin or feel the familiar ache when he filled me up.
I cleared my throat and rolled my chair over. “Why are you an old Armenian lady?”
“Who said I was old?” he asked, feigning insult.
“The voice you put on when you called to book your slot two days ago,” I deadpanned. “It was all thin and shaky and… old.”
“Oh, that.” He chuckled softly, as if only just remembering. “I figured I needed to be the total opposite of me to guarantee you didn’t put two and two together.”
“You succeeded,” I said, snapping on my gloves.
It wasn’t as if I’d kick him out now that he was here and topless. Besides, there was no other work to do since he’d blocked my schedule for the next three hours at least.
“Good to know I can fall back on acting if the hockey thing doesn’t work out, huh?”
It was impossible to joke around when the mention of hockey caused bile to burn the back of my throat. He had no idea what had happened with my mom. Or me, for that matter.
“I take it you’re here to finish the Cup?”
Aiden scoffed, intentionally looking away from the half-finished tattoo on the inside of his right bicep. “I’m thinking we can go ahead and cover that one up.”
“Mhmm, good idea.” I called his bluff. “I’m thinking a lotus flower. Add a zen element to the Latin you’ve got going on with that scrawl. It’ll be like it never happened.”
He looked at me then, and that playful swagger had faded away completely. What remained was just Aiden. Not first line center, or NHL’s new favorite son. Just Aiden.
“I think I really fucked things up for good this time.” It was the first crack in the polished confidence he usually wore like armor. “Grayson hasn’t said anything. Coach hasn’t said anything. But I feel it coming.”
I leveled him with a glance while I routinely filled my machine with black ink. No idea what I’d be doing, but feeling like that was a safe bet. “What do you feel coming?”
“The axe,” he muttered, and I felt that low hum of fear simmering just beneath his words.
I shook my head, not surprised at all. Aiden saw his world as painfully black and white. He was either in or out. No margin for error. Which, incidentally, was something I could relate to pretty hard.
“Why don’t you talk me through it while I finish this patchwork collage to distract people from your skinny ass ribs.”
He huffed a laugh, wincing when I touched a raw line. “What are you gonna add?”
“Mind your business,” I said, smearing a little ink with the wipe. The needle traced over his skin, smooth curves followed by an initial shading foundation. The smell of sterile disinfectant mingled with the ink tang in the air.
He was quiet for a moment, just watching, breathing a little deeper than normal.
When he finally spoke, it was tentative at first. He told me about how he’d bombed the last game, how he could do nothing but watch as it slipped through their fingers.
That he couldn’t get the noise of everything else out of his head long enough to string a couple of passes together.
I listened while my hands worked, the needle humming, the ink dark against his skin.
“I saw it,” I said, letting it slip in casually. “It wasn’t as bad as you think. You guys were just outmatched on the day. It happens.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You… saw it?”
“I guess I’m invested now,” I said with a shrug.
Aiden fought back a laugh that would’ve thrown my hand off-course. “If I didn’t have a needle in my ribs, I would’ve kissed the shit out of you.”
“You can do that later,” I murmured, my pulse spiking into a strange rhythm that matched the vibration of the machine.
I could argue it all I wanted. The man had an effect on me I couldn’t resist or deny.
This development didn’t bode well for my hopes of living a quiet life, which I was sure would entertain my mother to no end.
But a week ago I’d been willing to put up with that.
A week ago it was worth it, if it meant I got to be with Aiden.
Now though.
Just the thought of having the media grabbing at me from all angles—angles that included my mother—made me sick to my stomach.
I adjusted the angle of my chair, the hum of the needle filling the small booth like an insistent heartbeat. Aiden tracked my movements with that steady intensity of his that could either make me melt or give me a splitting migraine.
“So,” he said slowly, clearly deciding he’d had enough of my contemplative silence. “...is your mom the reason I haven’t heard from you?”
My actions stopped abruptly, and I lifted the needle from his skin. It would’ve been too easy to lie. Tell him no, everything was fine. It would’ve been even easier to dump the whole mess in his lap and let him sit with it, but I didn’t want to do that either.
“Not exactly,” I said finally, voice even. The machine whirred to life again, and thank God I had something to focus on that wasn’t his curious gaze studying my face.
“Care to share what it is… exactly?”
I sighed, letting the needle buzz between us like a metronome counting off the seconds between now and when everything would implode.
“Talking to my mom made me realize it’s me,” I admitted carefully. “She’s not the problem; I am. I— I don’t know if I can live like this, Aiden. With everyone knowing… everything.”
The pause stretched into the silence after I turned off my machine again, this time setting it down on the tray. I couldn’t trust my hands to finish what I’d started. The irony wasn’t lost on me, and I gave a sardonic laugh that broke the tension.
“It’s your world, hockey, the fame…” I went on when he didn’t say anything. “And I get it. But for me? I don’t know. I’m not sure I can live under that kind of scrutiny, with everyone knowing every little thing about me. Or us.”
He exhaled slowly, like he was unpacking the baggage I’d unexpectedly placed in his lap. “I know what you mean.”
“You do?”
“I feel the same way,” he said. “Lately, and especially after the last game, I’ve been thinking maybe I’m being stupid chasing a dream that wasn’t really mine in the first place.”
“Never y—? Aiden, what are you talking about? You were built for this. I see it every time you play. Hell, I see it every time you talk about playing.”
He looked at me, his eyes filled with that familiar doubt and frustration I’d come to know, but this time it was dialed up to a hundred. I’d never seen him this… resigned.
“What if I’m just supposed to be the benchwarmer?” he said, sounding almost bitter. As if he’d been a fool to believe otherwise. “I’m obviously not cutting it under the pressure.”
The tattoo sat against his ribs, forgotten. “You were thrown in the deep end. I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
He shook his head, muscles tensing under my touch as I checked the lines for bleed.
There was none, and I picked up my machine again.
This was the fastest way to quiet my mind, and I needed it now more than ever.
He was talking like someone about to quit, and I wasn’t ready for what that would mean.
“I don’t know, Sage,” he said, resting his head back as I got to work again. He’d reached the point where the pain was no longer a factor, but his chest was still tense under my hands. “The rest of the guys have this ability to just let it all roll off their backs, you know?”
“You’re new to this. The attention.”
“No,” he said simply. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way Coach looked at me when he called me off the ice. I couldn’t get out of my head. It scared the shit out of me. To know I was failing at the one thing I’d spent my life working toward.”
I shook my head, heart tight with second-hand pain.
“Aiden, you’re not failing. You were promoted because you earned that spot.
You’re good. You’re—” I stopped myself before sounding like a motivational poster.
Instead, I let the words soften into truth.
“You’re here because you’re supposed to be.
Don’t let one game make you doubt that.”
“You watched the game, but have you checked social media at all?” His tone was accusatory, as if he were growing more and more frustrated with me for not seeing things from his perspective.
“It’s never just one game. They’re ripping me apart online, analyzing every mistake and turning it into funny memes.
That doesn’t just make me feel like absolute shit, it blows back on the team.
The guys who depend on me to have my shit together. ”
His words were steeped in self-loathing and so much hurt it made me pause, hand hovering over his skin, feeling the warmth of him under my fingers. He wasn’t just talking about the game. He was talking about himself, about everything he’d built, and everything he thought he didn’t deserve to keep.
“I…” But my response fell to nothing. There wasn’t a smooth fix for what he felt.
A neat sound byte that would make it all better.
I couldn’t argue away the weight of this world on him.
I could only meet him halfway, where he was vulnerable and raw.
“I think you’re underestimating yourself, and overestimating the pressure. ”
He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I’ve spent years overestimating myself.”
“Aiden—”
“I’m done, Sage. I’m done trying to be someone I’m not.” He took a steadying breath, and then said, “I’m gonna step aside and give my spot to Shawn.”