2. Kai
Kai
“Are you sure about this?” Jonah asks, gesturing to the tattoo I had selected. “You know you don’t have to do this. You could just back out. Tell them you changed your mind.” He leans over the glass display table at the front of the tattoo shop.
“Positive, it’s the lesser of two evils,” I reply, seeing as how the other option was shaving my head. I’m an attractive guy but I know my limits and that includes not being able to pull off being bald.
I had lost a stupid bet with my teammates that I could out drink our biggest defenseman, Mason.
He was Hungarian, had almost one hundred pounds on me, and had been drinking since he was nine.
I knew I would probably lose but that didn’t stop me from trying.
And while Jonah’s right—I could just walk away—I would never hear the end of it from my teammates.
Part of being a rookie means paying my dues, proving my worth, and showing that I’m a team player.
If that means submitting myself to hazing tactics, grunt work, and following through with bets then so fucking be it.
It’s a small price to pay to be a starting player for the Boston Bucks my first year in the NHL.
“Okay man, whatever you say,” he replies while making no attempt at all to hide his grin. Jonah leans his back against the counter and flips through a magazine while I take a seat in the chair.
“You didn’t have to come, you know. I would have been just fine without you,” I gripe, irritated I was spending my one day off in a tattoo parlor making a fool of myself.
He may have claimed to come with me for moral support but I know he’d rather be here than with the rest of our teammates at the bar.
Jonah and I had bonded during training camp this past summer and then became good friends both on and off the ice.
If there’s one person I’d allow to be here for this fuckery, it’s him.
"And miss a front row seat to these shenanigans? Absolutely not,” he responds smugly.
While the tattoo artist starts on my back, I watch Jonah flirt shamelessly with the guy working at the counter.
Moral support my ass. He asks about different designs that he probably never plans on getting with feigned curiosity, seeing as how he often referred to his body as a temple.
All in an attempt to get this guy's number and I know he will. He always does.
Jonah had first come out to me as bisexual during preseason before he made the same announcement to our coach and team.
My initial response was: “Okay, what do you want to do for dinner?” Which I think was pretty shocking to him.
I followed that up by explaining it didn’t change anything between us.
He was still one of my closest friends and I supported him no matter what.
To say that sentiment wasn’t shared by the rest of the league is a colossal understatement.
But the world of professional sports just hasn’t evolved that much.
Not in the seventies when Red Auerbach introduced the first Black starting five.
Not after David Kopay came out as gay and certainly not now.
And Jonah was no exception. But he assured me the shit he got from some of our teammates and the media wasn’t nearly as bad as what he suffered through in high school and college.
He said he wasn’t concerned about the critics and trolls because his reputation spoke for itself and he was right.
Jonah Gibson could play his fucking ass off.
He was fast, agile, always where our offense needed him to be and he could score.
He had the kind of raw talent and innate athleticism that once made me wonder why he wasn’t a first round draft pick. I know better now.
A few months ago, the media stopped commenting on his romantic conquests and sexual orientation and shifted the narrative to his game, his added value as a team member.
They had no other choice because Jonah didn’t give them one.
Jonah didn’t just make a difference, he made the difference, he closed the gap, and he was helping us win games.
A lot of games. His performance eventually forced them to shut the fuck up and start paying attention. And I was proud to call him my friend.
Once the guy at the front counter leaves to attend to another customer, he sits down in a chair next to me clasping his hands behind his head.
“What’s that one on your ribcage for? Is it a date?” he asks, pointing to my left side. I run my hands over my ribs debating whether to tell him the origin of this tattoo. Jonah had divulged a lot to me. He trusted me and I definitely trusted him. I could give him something.
Clearing my throat, I confess, “I got it for my ex, Kendall.” He knows she’s a touchy subject, so I hope he’ll just drop it.
“Ah, the one who has you all broody and depressed, never wanting to leave your apartment?” he questions.
“That’s the one,” I respond reluctantly.
“It’s a shame,” the tattoo artist chimes in, apparently feeling bold.
“What is?” I turn my head over my shoulder to look at her.
“A handsome guy like you being wrecked over a girl. You seem nice too.” She flashes a smile at me and it’s then I notice how pretty she is.
In a terrifying, intimidating sort of way.
All dark features and sharp angles. Is she flirting with me?
I glimpse at Jonah who waggles his eyebrows as if to say, Yes, you idiot. She’s flirting with you.
“Thanks,” I blurt out.
“Welcome. There. You’re finished,” she says as she wipes the tattoo and places a bandage over it. “So. Do you guys make a habit of getting tattoos when you lose bets?” she jokes while glancing from me to Jonah.
“I’m hoping not,” I grumble and stand up from the chair, stretching my arms.
“Pity seems like it’d be incredibly lucrative for me,” she teases.
She gives me the instructions for tattoo care along with a card in case I have any questions.
Wash carefully. Moisturize. Avoid direct sunlight and swimming.
I stop her gently when she starts talking about obvious signs of infection.
“This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve had six before this. Thank you though. It looks great,” I comment.
Right before we turn to walk out, she shouts, “Wait! Can I have the card back for one second?”
I hand it back to her, curiosity gnawing at me and watch as she scribbles something on it. “Here’s my cell. In case you get tired of being broody and depressed,” she explains with a gorgeous smile. “Or you lose any more bets.”
I make eye contact with her and hold it for a few seconds, her auburn eyes burning into mine. Fuck. She was funny too. I hate to admit that I’m intrigued.
“Thanks,” I smile.
Once we’re outside, Jonah bumps his shoulder into mine.
“So, you gonna call her?” he questions. “She seems cool, hot too. And those tattoos? Pretty badass,” he observes, rubbing his hands together.
“Yeah, probably not. She seems like the kind of girl you date and that’s not what I’m looking for right now.”
Not when I’m still a mess over Kendall leaving.
“She looks like the kind of girl that's interested. And who's to say she’s not into casual hookups?” he challenges.
“Yeah, I guess. We’ll see,” I answer quietly.
We make the rest of the brisk walk to the bar in silence, trying to outrun the December chill in the air.
As soon as we open the door, I spot our group of loud boisterous teammates taking up three tables in the center.
Zeke comes up to me and claps me on the shoulder.
“So, how’d it go, man? You go through with it?” he jests.
I turn around and lift up my shirt showcasing the clean white tattoo bandage. Jonah opens his phone to display the picture he took of the tattoo as proof. A bold black number 32 in the middle of a red heart. Mason, the defenseman’s jersey number.