Chapter 47
Nikolai
“Are you sure?” Cooper asks as Isabelle wriggles into position on the table, lifting her shirt so her ribs are exposed. “Really,
really sure?”
“Shut up, I’m so excited.” She beams at us both. “This is the best present ever .”
While she agreed—more like shrieked and hugged Cooper and Sebastian tightly—to get the Celtic knot tattoo her brothers have
inked on their chests the day we ran into Chance, she waited until Rae, the tattoo artist who did the sword on Cooper’s arm,
had a free appointment. She’s been anticipating this for weeks. Cooper and I met her and Penny at the tattoo parlor right
after practice, so I’m exhausted, hair damp from the shower. I roll my shoulder with a wince. Our first game after the holiday
break, a winger from Maine flattened me like a pancake, and I’ve been nursing the ache since.
“It’s going to look great,” I say. “Although I read that rib tattoos hurt pretty bad.”
She shrugs. “It’ll be worth it. Shoulder still bothering you?”
I wave her off as I settle into a chair along the wall, close enough that we’ll be able to talk while she gets the tattoo.
“It’s fine. I’ve played through worse.”
“Maybe you should get a massage.”
“Maybe you can give it to me yourself later.”
“We’ll see,” she says with a snort. “You might have to distract me so I don’t start crying.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Rae says as they wash their hands. “You can pick the music, and we’ll chat.”
“For the record, we did want to take you to get it with us,” Sebastian says through Cooper’s phone. He’s in Geneva with Mia,
but they called to wish Isabelle good luck. James called just before I arrived; he’s in on the tattoo plan as well. “But Mom
threatened us with the pain of death if we so much as suggested it to you.”
I catch the flash of surprise on Isabelle’s face. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Cooper sits next to Penny with a groan. She looks up from her book, rubbing his knee reassuringly. He’s also taken
a couple hard hits recently. The end of the season is still a ways off, but around this time, it’s impossible to be completely
healthy. “I wanted to sneak you out, but James reminded me that you couldn’t have gotten it without parental permission anyway.”
“Huh. And here I was thinking it was a boys’ club.”
“No way. It’s a Callahan thing.”
Even though he’s talking to Isabelle, he throws me a look. I guess I really got through to him about Isabelle’s insecurities.
I’m glad. A family like hers is rare, and she deserves to feel every bit as much a part of it as her siblings.
“I like the sound of that,” she says.
“Once a Callahan, always a Callahan,” says Sebastian. “Somehow I got that through my thick head.”
“Eventually,” Cooper says dryly.
“I need to go, but good luck, Iz,” Sebastian adds. “I can’t wait to see the pictures.”
“I’m sending them to the group chat as soon as I can,” she says. “Mom is going to flip . Tell Mia hi!”
“Ready?” Rae asks, pulling gloves over their tattooed hands.
I wink at Isabelle, who flushes. She nods, adjusting her arm so the tattoo won’t look strange on her rib cage when she stands. I wonder how she’ll handle the pain. She doesn’t mind a little of it in bed, but this isn’t the same. She creases her forehead with determination. Even if it hurts like hell, I don’t think we’ll hear any complaints.
“No tattoos, boyfriend?” Rae asks, glancing at me as they wipe Isabelle’s skin with an alcohol swab.
“Nah. Although you make it seem appealing.”
The walls are covered in tattoo designs and photographs of finished products on various clients. The small Celtic knot that
Isabelle is getting is ridiculously tame compared to the full sleeves some of these people have going on. I rub my shoulder
as I inspect an intricate depiction of a dragon curling around someone’s arm.
“You should get one,” Penny says. “I didn’t think I’d be into it, but I love mine.” She lifts her sleeve, showing off the
small tattoo on her wrist. It’s a phrase written in a language I don’t recognize. “It’s a Lord of the Rings thing. Cooper has the same one.”
“You definitely should,” he says, grinning. “You can show off some ink when you get to your new locker room next season.”
I force a laugh. “Maybe.”
“Can confirm it would be hot,” Isabelle says, turning on a Sabrina Carpenter song.
I’m already thinking about when her tattoo is healed and I’ll get to lick it, so that checks out. I cut off that train of
thought before it can get too far away from the station. We’re going to be here for a few hours; the last thing I need is
to spend half of it with a boner.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, intending to check my email, but pause when I see a string of new voice mails. I work my
jaw.
I should ignore them. Dad, thank fuck, hasn’t made concrete plans to see me yet. He keeps talking about it, but the longer it’s just talk, the greater the chance it won’t come to fruition. He said the same thing last spring, even went so far as to buy me a plane ticket to Berlin for a hockey expo, but I didn’t show, and he didn’t force the issue.
I wish I could be excited by the prospect of him coming to see me play. He used to attend as many of my games as he could,
in between his own. Sometimes that was a good thing—I can still hear the praise in my mind like a siren song—and sometimes
it led to me getting chewed out and punished. But he wouldn’t just be here to watch me play hockey, and I can’t help the protective
feelings that rise up at the thought of him anywhere near Mom and our lives now. Not to mention Isabelle.
I hover my thumb over the delete button on the first voice mail. Before I can make myself press it, though, my phone lights
up with a text from Cricket.
“You okay?” Isabelle asks.
I run my hand over her hair quickly, careful not to jostle her. “Yeah. I just need to make a quick call.”
She purses her lips, no doubt putting two and two together. “Is it...”
“No. Just Cricket.”
She relaxes. “Tell her we need to find a time to meet up.”
I slip around the corner of the building. It’s snowing lightly, just a coating that won’t stick, but for whatever reason,
the sight of it pricks me with nostalgia. It’s stupid; obviously it snows in a lot of the world, including New York, my actual
home, but for a brief moment, I’m seven again, walking the few short blocks from school to my apartment building. I used to
have this pair of red leather gloves that I liked because they reminded me of what I wore for hockey. I doubt Dad kept them
after we left.
“Ooh, a phone call. I feel so special.”
Cricket texted me in extremely grammatically incorrect Russian, so I’m not surprised to hear her greet me in the language. I cross my legs, leaning against the building.
“Your accent isn’t half bad,” I reply in Russian.
“I’m trying!”
“Your grammar needs help, though.”
“Eh. Grammar is overrated anyway. Everything okay?”
“He wants to visit.”
“Motherfucker.”
I bark out a laugh. “When did you start learning the curses?”
“The curses are the fun part,” she says, switching to English. “Did he say when?”
“No. He brought it up for the first time a few weeks ago.” Before she can bring up New Year’s, I add, “I think he’s serious,
though. He’s still trying to make a case for his team.”
“Tell him you won’t see him.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that would stop him.”
“Tell McKee not to sell him a ticket.”
“He’d just come to an away game.”
“Maybe Grandfather could get him on the no-fly list or something.”
“I think if he could, he already would have.”
“Ugh,” she groans. Her voice softens. “I’m sorry. Tell me if he starts talking about dates. How’s Isabelle?”
“She’s getting a tattoo,” I say, happy to change the topic of conversation. “Right now, I mean.”
“Really? I love her even more.”
“You haven’t even met her.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“It’s not my fault that she wasn’t at the game you saw in the fall.”
“We should get dinner. Come to the city.”
“I’ll see if we can work something out. She’s busy right now with wedding planning stuff.”
“Wait. Did you—”
“Jesus, no.” My stomach flips, not unpleasantly. “Her brother’s wedding. She’s working on it with my mom.”
“Oh, nice. That’s cool.”
“She’s really talented at it.” I clear my throat. It’s snowing heavier now, slowing traffic. “Not just at keeping track of
everything and making sure all the details are correct, although that, too. But it’s more meaningful than table settings and
color schemes. She has this ability to make a story out of the event. It’s an art form.”
While I’ve always respected the business my mother built after her divorce, I never paid too much attention to the details.
Not until now. Even last summer, I didn’t understand the point. After Isabelle walked me through her thought process on James
and Bex’s wedding tone—not a theme—the other day, however, I started to get it. She’s creating a story, a celebration, a promise
for the future. And she’s damn talented at it, even if she’s still learning.
“Aw, are you blushing?”
“What? No.”
“I’ll bet you’re blushing. You sound so different when you talk about her, by the way. It’s cute.”
I scuff the toe of my boot against the ground. “I’m hanging up.”
“It’s nice, Nikolai. Really. It’s nice.” She’s quiet for a minute, and I stay on the line, even though the back of my neck
is burning. Cricket texts me all the time about her various short-lived relationships—she has the busiest dating life of anyone
I know, queer or straight—but we don’t usually talk about me. “You sound like she’s the best thing you’ve ever experienced.”
I peer around the corner. Through the window, I can’t see much of Isabelle, but something loosens in my chest anyway. She stood up to my past—demanded to hear the truth of it—and didn’t even flinch. I don’t deserve her, and when I’ve lost her, that’s what I’ll remember.
Because she is the best thing, and that’s terrifying.