4. Booker
Booker
Fuck.
Three weeks ago, when my regular tattoo artist texted to let me know he was moving, he sent me Rodney’s number.
But then Rodney accidentally double-booked, and now I’m here, standing in a scene from my literal worst nightmare.
Maya stares at me, brown doe eyes wide with shock. Her pretty, pouty lips are parted, slack-jawed as she registers who just walked in.
A throat clears, pulling my attention to a large, middle-aged man whose eyes bounce back and forth between the two of us.
“Everything okay here?” he asks, voice deep and intimidating.
“Yep!” Maya says, a little too cheerfully. She walks up to me and holds out her hand for a shake. “I’m Maya. Rodney sent you over?”
The fuck?
She knows I know who she is.
As if I could ever forget the only bright piece of my soul I have left.
I nod, putting my hands in my pockets, knowing I’m not strong enough to touch her skin and survive. “Yeah, um, he said you could squeeze me in?” I internally cringe.
The older man walks over, shooting me a suspicious glare while grabbing a fresh bottle of ink from a cabinet, then patting Maya on the head in an affectionate, fatherly way. “M-dog here will take good care of you,” he assures me before heading back to his booth.
M-dog. That’s what Rodney had called her on the phone. Of course I knew Maya was a tattoo artist somewhere in town, but I had assumed he was talking to a man.
“So, uh, you still want to do this?” Maya asks, hesitantly, when the other guy is out of earshot.
My mind is reeling too fast for me to even think of a logical response. Am I going to let Maya Winchester—the girl I’ve spent thirteen years trying to get out of my head—permanently tattoo my body?
“I don’t…” I start, and her face falls before I even complete my thought. The look in her eyes pierces my chest in a way that makes breathing difficult. “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” I finish, trying for honesty.
“I understand. It’s up to you, Jamie.”
My name passes through her lips so easily. A name I haven’t used in a long fucking time. I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing before I say, “Can you…not call me that.”
She startles, eyebrows raising. “O-okay. Sorry, I didn’t know…” she trails off, the awkwardness of this moment continues to grow exponentially.
“I-I think I’m just going to go,” I say, backing toward the door. The tattoo can wait. I can’t do this right now.
I don’t look at Maya again as I leave the shop, hop in my car, and speed away, putting as much distance as possible between myself and the girl who owns my stone cold heart.
Back at the house, all the lights are off, and all my roommates have retired to their respective bedrooms. Meaning I have no one to distract me from the lingering thoughts of Maya Winchester swirling around in my brain.
Her curls, the freckles across her nose, the birthmark she has above her left elbow. I know Maya on a cellular level, despite everything I’ve done to push her to the deepest recesses of my mind.
And tonight, hearing her voice, seeing her smile up close, it did something to me I can’t explain, and it’s driving me insane.
I wanted to grab her, pull her body to mine and never let her go. The need to touch her skin was almost visceral.
I am logical. I am meticulous. I do not get emotionally overcome by random girls and want to smell their hair to see if it’s the same scent I remember.
She’s not a random girl. She’s Maya, and the way her eyes trailed over my body nearly snapped the hold I’ve had on my control the last three years at this school.
I hop in the shower—as cold as the water will go—and fight the the overwhelming urge I have to touch myself to thoughts of the girl with the golden curls.
* * *
“Cap!” Simmons hollers, slinging the puck my way. I gain control, dodging Beau as he comes at me, and scoring a backhand shot on Gally.
The scrimmage game ends after I score, and the team gathers around Coach Winchester to hear his feedback.
“Gallagher” he starts, addressing Noah Gallagher first. “You let three goals get by, and all of them were on your left side. Don’t neglect it. I want you and Coach Clay working on that tomorrow. Jackson, I want you to join them.
“Warren, your size is your biggest advantage. Use it. You could’ve gotten that last puck, but you were holding back. Use your reach.
“Crosby, keep working on those face-offs. I know going up against the guy teaching you is tough, but you can utilize Simmons and Fischer as well. You’re going to have to center next year, and you need to be comfortable with it.”
Coach goes on to address each player personally, noting things they do well and things they need to work on. Finally, he looks at me.
“Captain, good work out there. No notes today.” I nod my head. That’s what he’s been saying for three years now. Great work, Cap. No notes.
It’s bullshit. I’m a much better player now at twenty-three than I was at eighteen. But I learned from watching, listening, and mimicking. Never once has he given me one-on-one feedback.
Which is exactly how I want it.
I dug this grave and, by God, I’m going to sleep in it.
I didn’t need him before, and I don’t need him now.
Back in the locker room, we change and shower. One of my roommates—and, technically, my oldest friend—Drew tells me he’s got plans tonight.
Drew, Peter Simmons, Gally, and I all live in a house downtown.
Gally spends an absurd amount of time with his girlfriend and is hardly ever home.
Simmons, in contrast, is always home, constantly yelling at video games and watching movies at top volume.
He’s a good guy, but he’s always been a loner.
We’ve been teammates since we started at St. A’s, but he never seemed interested in making real, close friends.
I’ve known Drew since I was a child. Andrew Mattingly was in my kindergarten class, and went to school with me here in Pennsylvania up until the day I moved away. We reconnected when he started going to school here a year after I did—he got held back a grade after I left.
Aside from Drew, the two people I’m closest to are Beau and Colt. We met when they tried out—the same year as Drew—and hit it off. Combined with me mentoring Colt on centering, we’ve gotten pretty close.
My phone rings as I’m leaving the rink, and I groan when I see the name of my father’s personal assistant—Tracy—light up the screen. Ignore.
She calls again.
Ignore.
Again.
Ignore.
The fourth call, my father’s name replaces Tracy’s.
Shit. Usually when I ignore her, Tracy tells him I’m unavailable. I should’ve known better than to tempt fate. Now I have to talk to the devil himself.
I swipe to answer the call, but I don’t speak.
“Jameson. Tracy told me you haven’t booked your flight for next weekend.”
“I have a game next weekend,” I respond dryly.
“You have to show your face at at least one of my shows this year, James.”
I scrunch my nose at the idea of having to see him in person. “I’m busy. It’s my senior year. I’ve got to practice and get prepared for the Flyers. I can’t just leave because you want me to.”
“I didn’t ask for a fucking excuse. Get on a plane and get your ass here. You know what happens if you don’t.” My father ends the call, his threat hanging in the air.
I throw my phone in the passenger seat, white-knuckling the steering wheel.
I didn’t ask for a fucking excuse. One of his favorite lines.
My father is Ross Booker, world-famous rock star.
When I went to live with him at nine years old, I didn’t know who he was. I was told that my dad was a very rich man who could take good care of me.
My only thought at the time was: If he’s so rich, why wasn’t he taking care of us before?
The answer: he never has, and never will, give a fuck about anyone but himself.
He cares about his image, though. And when the press found out he had a kid whose mother tragically passed away, he was forced to take me in, or let the world see what kind of bastard he really is on the inside.