Chapter 10
Nadia
Axel takesmy hand as we climb the porch stairs. I can feel the energy rolling off of him.
“Ready?” he asks, looking down at me, a glimmer in his green eyes.
“Not even remotely.”
When I asked Axel to take me somewhere ‘safe’ I didn’t think it would be to the old house on the edge of the business district. The one with the neon sign in the window announcing the name of the shop: Permanent Record.
It’s a tattoo and piercing parlor.
“This isn’t what I was thinking, when I said I needed a safe space.”
“Me either, T,” he opens the door, and a bell chimes overhead, “but the other option included the two of us getting naked and I don’t think that’s what you had in mind.”
He’d be wrong about that, I think, but don’t say, as I walk in behind him. Getting naked with Axel is exactly what I’d had in mind. I’d wanted to go back to one of our houses, let him peel off all my clothes, and forget about stupid boys and epic fuck-ups. Of course, that decision would have added another to the list.
I hate it when he’s right.
We step inside a small foyer, that doesn’t look like it’s changed since it was a home. A glass chandelier hangs overhead and a massive coat rack takes up one wall. There’s a room to the right and left. To the right is a sitting room, filled with comfortable looking seating and gorgeous artwork on the walls.
“So this is your safe space?” I ask, peering at one of the drawings.
“It’s relaxing,” he says.
“Having a needle jabbing into your skin is relaxing?” I ask in disbelief.
“I know it sounds weird, but it’s true. The pain isn’t that bad and after a while it becomes kind of soothing. I go into this, like, meditative space.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s messing with me. The expression on his face, tells me he’s not. “God, you’re weird.”
“Unique.” He gives me a cheeky grin. “At least that’s what my mother calls it.”
He looks over my head and I turn, seeing someone walking across the foyer.
“Hey man.” A guy with spiked hair and tattoos twisting up his neck. He grins, thrusting his hand out. Axel takes it, smiling back. “Didn’t see you on the appointment books.”
“Hoping for a walk-in. It’s for something small.” He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me next to him. “Tony, this is Nadia. Nadia, this is Tony, my tattooist.” He grins. “We’re kind of in a committed relationship.”
“We’re not–” I start, taking a beat too long to realize Axel is talking about Tony and not me. “Oh, right.”
“Although,” Axel adds with a sexy grin, “Nadia and I have a special thing going on too.”
“Nice to meet you, Nadia.” Tony looks me over and I feel oddly insecure, not like he’s checking me out, but noticing how bare my skin is. “I have a little time if you want to get something after I’m finished with Ax.”
“Oh.” My eyes scan the room, at the framed images on the wall. The artwork is all amazing. So delicate and intricate. “I’ve never really thought about getting a tattoo before.”
It’s a lie. I’d thought about it, plenty, but it only centered around one idea: getting a tattoo of my boyfriend or future husband’s jersey number, 04 specifically.
Brent’s number.
There is no freaking way I’m admitting that.
“Well, in case you need some inspiration, you can check out the portfolios on the shelves over there.”
I follow his gesture, noticing the stacks of books in the room with the couches. The idea of picking a tattoo out of a book seems impersonal. Twyler has tattoos. They’re on her upper thighs, covering the scars from when she used to self-harm. The designs are important to her, symbols from her favorite band, The New Kings. I don’t have anything in my life that has that kind of importance. I never let myself get that deep into something that wasn’t fashion or boys.
Now that I think about it, it’s kind of unsettling.
Stepping away from the bookshelves, I walk into the other room. It used to be a dining room, but it’s been upgraded to a sleek, clean, tattoo room with three stations. Axel’s in the process of pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his incredible body. His pants are slung low, revealing the cut V between his hips. I’m momentarily struck dumb.
“Damn,” a voice says what I’m thinking. I turn and see a woman come from the back of the parlor. She’s pretty, with heavy eye make up and long black hair with pink streaks underneath. Her body is covered in artwork, tattoos, and piercings. There’s one above her lip, a diamond, glinting like a beauty mark, and another at the top of her cheek. Her eyes drag away from Axel’s impressive physique. “Sorry, he’s just a goddamn work of art.”
“No need to apologize,” I say, “but yeah, he really is, isn’t he?”
Axel’s busy showing Tony an area on his hip, but he must feel me watching him as he settles in the chair, because he looks up at me and winks.
“Ovaries exploded,” the girl mutters as a warm heat spreads across my limbs. “Make sure you wear protection with that one.”
“We’re not together,” I say quickly.
“Hey, Jasmine,” Axel calls. “What’s up?”
“Not much,” she replies. “Getting a piercing today?”
“Nah, just the ink.”
“What about you?” she asks.
“Me?” My ears were pierced at the mall when I was twelve, and I did a second on my own at Jennifer Mitchell’s house during a slumber party. At eighteen I got my belly button pierced over spring break, but it quickly became infected, and I’d sworn them off. “I’m just here with him.”
“You’ve got those killer cheekbones and gorgeous lips, I don’t really think you need anything. Although,” she touches the row of earrings in the shell of her ear. “A helix or two would probably look good with your hair since you tuck it behind your ear.”
My cheeks burn at the compliment, and Jasmine walks to the adjacent room.
“Yeah,” I hear Axel say, “I think that’s a good spot.”
Curious, I walk back over and take a look at him lying on the chair. He’s on his side, with one arm propped behind his head, and his jeans are unbuttoned and pushed down. I keep my eyes away from the dark shadow of hair, and focus on the exposed tattoos. Under Tony’s bright lights, I can see them more clearly than I have before. There’s no pattern to them, a collage of symbols and imagery. Skulls and pistols combined with butterflies and hearts. Hockey sticks and pucks. There’s a pin-up girl on his bicep and an arrow above his heart. Script fills some of the space. Some single words or others a longer sentence. Most in cursive, making it hard to read. There’s religious iconography, which makes sense with a minister father. There’s a line of tallies on his ribs, the badger logo above it. I reach out and touch his warm skin, running it over the marks.
“Goals saved,” he says, watching my fingers. “I get them updated a few times a season.”
“Is that what you’re doing today?” I ask, looking up at Tony who is holding a small sheet of paper in one hand and a wet cloth in the other. “Adding to the tallies?”
“Nah.” Tony stands over him and presses the sheet of paper on his hip, just inside the defined muscle. “I like to commemorate important things in my life. Events. Success and failures. People.”
After pressing the wet cloth on the paper, Tony pulls it back, revealing the temporary purple ink of a ‘T’. The font is bold, varsity letter style.
“You’re kidding,” I say, gaping at the letter.
“Things have been pretty shitty lately, with the probation and stuff. You’re the only good thing that’s left a mark.”
“Axel…” I say, my words cut off by the harsh buzz of the tattoo gun.
“It’s not a marriage proposal, T,” he says, taking my hand and linking his fingers with mine. “It’s just how I keep track of things. Some people have a diary. I have my body.”
Needle meets flesh and his fingers tighten against mine.
I don’t watch Tony, my eyes are glued to Axel’s: brilliant, pure, true.
I have to ask, because no man, especially not a man I’m not sleeping with, has ever made a gesture like this. Proof that I’m here. That I exist.
“You’re sure this isn’t another fuck-up?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking down at Tony filling in the ink, “I’m fucking positive.”
The pucks clatteracross the ice, slamming into the players’ sticks and the boards. The scoreboard says 1-1. I spot Twyler is sitting in the stands. She’s in a Wittmore jersey, the number 15 on the back and Cain stitched over it. Half the reason Twyler switched from training the hockey team to basketball was so that she could sit in the stands and support her boyfriend without their positions being a conflict.
“Get it together, Wittmore!” she shouts, making room for me to get to the seat she saved for me.
“Hey,” I say, nodding to the score, “how did that happen?”
“Lucky shot.” She frowns. “The Badgers had been dominating the whole first period, but their forward got a breakaway and Axel couldn’t get his hands on it.”
I look down at the net, Axel suited up in his pads and gloves. He’s alert and watching the play down at the other end of the ice. It’s impossible to see his face with the helmet on, but I know he’s pissed. Not at the team, at himself for missing that goal.
The puck ricochets off the boards, and the players shift directions, gliding across the ice with complete ease. Watching them, I understand a little better how they’re all so confident. The simple feat of being able to skate and handle the stick and puck is physically impressive.
The whistle blows, and the lines change, one group of guys going on the ice, while another goes off. I feel Twyler staring at me.
“You got your ear pierced,” she says, touching the shell of my ear. “When did this happen?”
I pull back and give her a face. It’s still tender. “Yesterday.”
“Did you go to Jasmine at Permanent Record?”
I nod.
“She’s great. Tony, too. You should have told me you were going, I need to get a touch up on one of my tatts.”
“Sorry.” I give her a small smile and a white lie. “It was a spontaneous decision.”
The only reason I was at the tattoo and piercing parlor was because Axel took me there to help me get out of my head. After watching him get the ‘T’ on his hip, something courageous lit in my chest, and I decided to do something too. Albeit, something much less permanent.
Down on the ice, the referee drops the puck for the face-off and the guys fight for possession. Wittmore loses and someone nearby shouts, “Stop him!” as the forward makes it into shooting range. Jefferson makes a play for it, but the puck slides past him, right into the forward’s path. He rears back, slapping the hard disc with the edge of his stick and it sails through the air.
I tense, every muscle in my body tight, as the puck slings through the air. My only thought is how does anyone stop that? Yet Axel is there, snatching the disc out of the air.
“He did it!” I shout, both shocked and not. I don’t get a chance to breathe before he responds quickly, hurling the puck back on the ice. His aim is true, and the puck lands right at the tip of Reid’s stick. He’s in perfect position, passing the puck to Reese up near the goal. Twyler jumps to her feet. “Go get it, Cain. Take the shot!”
Reese moves with unbridled power, taking a hard slapshot that sails past the other team’s goalie and into the back of the net. The light flips on and the buzzer sounds. “He did it!” I shout, jumping to give Twyler a hug. Down on the ice, Reese looks up at her and grins, and my heart clenches.
Somehow my friend is living my best life. I wait for the wave of jealousy, but it’s impossible. She didn’t chase it. Love found her. Well, I guess Reese found her in that coffee shop and fate did the rest. It just makes me wonder if I’ve been doing it all wrong.
The second the buzzer sounds for intermission, and the organizers start up some game on the ice for the fans. I watch the guys skate off the ice–no, I watch Axel.
“Oh, I got you something,” Twyler says, reaching for her bag. She pulls a Wittmore hockey jersey out and holds it up with the back facing me. The name Rakestraw is stitched across the top with the number 01.
I stare at the jersey, then up at Twyler’s smiling face, and ask, “What the heck is this for?”
“For you to wear. You know,” she gives me a look, “since you’re dating.”
My heart stutters. “We’re not dating.”
She gives me a ‘duh’ look. “I know, but Brent and CJ don’t. Shanna definitely got the message she and Reese were done when I started wearing his clothes.”
“She got the message because he looks at you like you’re a three-layer cake and he wants to eat the whole thing with his bare hands.”
She rolls her eyes, but I see the pink flush in her cheeks. “I just think that after Brent saw you kissing Axel in the bar the other night, it makes sense to imply that this is more serious than a one-night thing.”
If she only knew about our real one-night stand. I run my hands down my thighs, the guilt of lying to her a weight on my shoulders. “Don’t you think Axel would have a problem with it? You and I both know walking around in a guy’s jersey means something. Something we’re not. It would be like wearing a sign that says ‘cockblocker’ to any other girl he’s interested in.”
She shrugs, shoving the shirt into my hands. “He’s not interested in anyone else right now. Or at least it doesn’t seem like it. You know I stay over there a lot, and the parade of puck bunnies going in and out of there like Grand Central Station has come to a complete stop.”
It feels weird to hear confirmation that he’s holding up to his end of the pact. I never thought he’d really give up sex entirely. Why should he? That’s not his problem. It’s mine.
But I can’t deny that hearing her confirm it loosens something in my chest, and I’m not sure how to identify the relief that follows.
“He’s trying to focus on the game right now,” I tell her. “At least that’s what he told me. He feels like he let the team down when he failed the drug test so he’s partying less. I guess that includes women.”
Twyler nods. “Reese is really proud of the work he’s putting into it. Between us, he wasn’t sure if he could–or really–would, do it.”
I don’t tell her how hard making these changes have been for him–on both of us–and that we’ve been leaning on one another for support because I’m pretty sure her approval would disappear. “I think he’s really trying.”
“Well, if you want me to steal a hoodie for you the next time I’m over, I’m on it.” Her eyes widen. “Oh, or you could get one yourself at Friendsgiving on Sunday.”
Shit. I’d forgotten about that. “They’re not really my friends, Twy.”
“Of course they are. Reese, Reid, Axel…”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“They want you to come. And even more, I need you to come.” Her gaze flicks behind me and I know she’s looking at the group of puck bunnies that come to every game and party. They have their own little section and they have no problem wearing various jerseys with the players’ names on them. Discreetly, I turn, and see that one girl with long blonde hair has on Axel’s number.
My nails dig into my thighs.
I’ve been that girl before, desperate for a player’s attention. Her clear blue eyes meet mine and something passes between us. A familiarity. Does she know who I am? Does she know I slept with Axel? Kissed him in the bar?
Does she know he got my initial tattooed on his body?
Hell, I don’t know if she’s done the same with him and honestly, it’s none of my business.
“Reid and Darla broke up, which means I’ll be the only girlfriend,” Twyler continues. “Jefferson’s been on a tear through sorority row, so I expect at least a couple girls I don’t know to be there, and I’m sure Reid will be licking his wounds with at least one puck bunny.”
“What about Axel? You just said he’s flying solo these days.”
“And he’s totally cranky about it.” She grips my arm. “Please come? You don’t even have to cook. I’ll bring enough for both of us. Just don’t leave me alone with these people.”
“Fine. I’ll come.”
“Thank God.” She sighs in relief and looks at my long sleeved work shirt with the Wittmore Gym logo on the chest, then down to the jersey. “You gonna put that on?”
I’ve gone three years without wearing an athlete’s jersey. My goal had been to actually date the player first. For him to claim me. It had never happened. But Axel isn’t a guy I want to date. He isn’t going pro. Like Twyler said, he’s a friend, and he’d offered to buffer me from other guys, which is important right now.
I slip the shirt over my head, pulling it over my head. There’s a torn, frayed spot at the bottom and when I lift the fabric to my nose, it has a warm, musky, clean scent. “Where did you get this?”
“Out of the team manager’s room. They swap out uniforms all the time–this one was in the bin for damaged jerseys.”
The music blasts, announcing the end of the participant game. The winners carry off their prizes, T-shirts and a few Badger plushies. The buzzer sounds and all eyes are on the players as they skate out of the tunnel. Twyler’s on her feet, cheering on her boyfriend and my eyes are glued to the goalie as he heads across the ice to the net. Right before the whistle blows, his head lifts and he searches the crowd. It’s impossible to know with that mask on, but I sense it when he finds me, and something hot slams into my chest. I exhale loudly.
“You okay?” Twyler asks, frowning at me.
“I’m fine, just a long day, you know.” The whistle blows and the boys lunge into action.
“Long semester,” she agrees. “I can’t wait to have a few days off for Thanksgiving.”
I nod, not feeling the same desire, but it’s better than talking about the feelings coursing through me. “So Reid and Darla, huh?”
“Oh yeah, total drama,” she says, eyes lighting up. “We heard the whole thing.”
I smile, grateful for the distraction. “Tell me everything.”
“Sure you don’t wantto come?” Twyler asks, grabbing Reese’s hoodie and pulling it over her head. She fluffs out her long hair, letting it spill over her shoulders. “It should be fun.”
The guys are having a party over at the Manor to celebrate their narrow win. It may have been narrow, but they’re still undefeated and the vibe coming off the team tonight was intense.
“I really need to work on this project,” I say, pulling my computer into my lap, “and I have to work early.”
“Okay, but if you want to come up, just come in. The guys will be happy to have you there.”
I don’t react to that other than with a tight smile and feel a sense of relief when she’s out the door. After all those months of not wanting me around the hockey team, she’s shifted gears. It could be because she’s not working with the team anymore, but I suspect it’s something else: She just feels bad for me.
Checking my email, I see a message from Eric, adding me to a shared document for his notes. My emotions are still conflicted about how we left things–or well, how I freaked out on him and ran from the room. Was he being a douche? That’s the problem. I have no idea. He looked genuinely horrified at my accusations, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been gaslit into feeling guilty over something I’m unsure about. I’m not used to nice guys, non-athletes, who don’t feed on ego and over-inflated confidence. Maybe Eric had been genuine, just wanting to give me back my scarf and the easiest way to do that was to stop by the frat house.
Or maybe he’s just like the rest of them, looking for an opportunity to hurt me.
Why are men so fucking confusing?
I type out a response: Thanks. I’ll get on this ASAP, and shut the laptop.
My phone buzzes and panic hits my gut. Is it him?
I pick up the phone and stare at the text:
GoalieGod: SOS.