22 - Sage
Sage
Ink buzzed through the air of the main hall. A low, insistent whine carried on the smell of antiseptic and coffee mixed into something that was almost comforting. I crouched over a client’s arm, my booth one in a long row of tattoo artists from all over the country.
“This doesn’t bother you?” She was obviously referring to the constant movement around us. Voices, passing footsteps, some people stopping to track my needle as though it were performance art instead of… Well, just me doing my job.
“I’m okay. We’re almost done here.”
I passed the machine to my other hand for a second, and flexed my fingers to stave off the cramp threatening the back of my wrist. Martha made the sixth tattoo of the day, and I was beginning to feel it. The load I was used to. The obligation to be personable, on the other hand…
My needle traced the final line on her requested tribal band (probably the ten millionth of the day in this convention center), and I let the machine die.
Without the hypnotic buzz to soothe me, the room started crowding in to get my edges just jittery enough to make me aware of it. How out of my element I was.
“No offense, but you don’t look okay,” Martha said, sliding off her chair.
I’d been at this for hours; what did she expect? But I smiled, giving my hand another shake before stretching my fingers.
“I’ll be fine,” I said with a forced smile. “A stiff drink and cold sheets, and I’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
God, I hated small talk.
Thankfully, she seemed satisfied that I’d survived the day and disappeared into the river of denim, graphic tees, and hair in every color imaginable.
The floor was electric with energy, but I existed in my little orbit of ink and steady lines.
If I’d spoken to one other artist since arriving, it would’ve been a lot.
I was sure the guys would roast me about that back home.
But I wasn’t here to make friends. The whole point was to watch, learn, and showcase a little bit of what I could do.
“Sage Robinson?”
I didn’t look up from the portable sink where I’d been cleaning my machine. “Sorry, shop’s closed for the day.”
“Good.”
Good?
My stomach flipped over when I turned to see who I’d just blown off in not the most polite way.
Dominic Vega. Only one of the best artists in the world, and co-chair of the international committee running this convention.
The short-circuit in my brain did little to help.
I just stood there and gaped at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“I know I’m barging in on you,” he said, sounding apologetic when I was the one who’d acted like a dick just now. “And I know your hand must be killing you.”
“I’m okay,” I managed, an echo of my earlier lie to Martha.
“That’s good to hear,” Dominic said, “because I’d like to steal you away for a few minutes before you leave for whatever party you guys have on the roster tonight.”
“The only party I’m having is the one in my bed. I mean— That sounded— Sleep. I’m going back to my hotel, and I’m going to sleep.”
“Even better,” he said, and gave a short laugh. “That means you’re in no rush.”
Wait, what? Had he not heard the part about me looking forward to bed and sleep?
He led me through the main hall to a side room off the floor, the panel discussion room, and I stopped short in the doorway.
It was packed. People filled every available seat on a floor that easily held upward of five hundred.
There were even rows of people standing up against the walls for the lack of chairs.
“They won’t bite, I promise.” Dominic placed a steady hand on the base of my back and ushered me deeper into the room.
“Looks full.”
But I was never meant to be part of the audience.
It started sinking in when we skirted the front of the stage and I recognized a few familiar faces standing as if on display.
People I’d tattooed over the past two days, including the tribal band who’d just left my booth.
Looming large on the wall behind them was a screen flashing through close-up projections of a wrist, a bicep, the inside of an elbow.
My work.
Every line and shading was visible to the whole room.
Dominic gestured for me to lead the way onto the stage, but I shook my head.
“What is this?”
“Well, you’ll sit in one chair, I’ll sit in the other, and we’ll talk about what makes your work so fucking good.”
I blinked at him.
He must’ve clocked the level of disbelief coursing through me, because he laughed again, and said, “It’s not as intimidating as it looks. And the questions you’ll get from the audience won’t be anything you haven’t heard a thousand times before.”
“There’ll be questions?” My pulse spiked, and I broke out in a cold sweat.
Dominic’s impatience started showing through as I held him hostage off-stage. “You’re young, talented, and it’s valuable to share about your training, your process, all the good shit potential artists want to know.”
“I’m just— I work in a small studio in San Antonio. I haven’t—”
“The tattoo world loves fresh blood,” Dominic said smoothly. “I believe you have a perspective people want to hear.”
I glanced at my watch, remembering the reason I’d been looking forward to bolting out of here today.
“Hotel room beds don’t have curfews.”
“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “This won’t take long, though, right?”
His smile widened. “Not long at all.”
Dominic led me up the steps, the crowd clapping as I stepped into the light. My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear the applause. Overwhelmed didn’t begin to cover it. But happiness—pure, stupid, ridiculous happiness—curled through me in waves. And I let it.
*
The hotel room door hit the wall behind it with the way I sped into my room.
Bags thudded to the floor as I lunged onto the bed, hair sticking to the back of my neck, pulse still sprinting from the panel.
I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.
The interview had run longer than I’d anticipated, and my stomach churned with guilt.
Every second wasted meant missing part of Aiden’s game, the one I’d been counting down to all day.
The TV flickered to life. They were already into the second period. Score 1—0 to The Surge. Okay, that was good at least. My chest tightened, half with adrenaline, half with relief that he was on the ice. Looking solid, throwing himself into the thick of it.
I grabbed snacks from the mini bar—nuts, chips, and a few of those tiny bottles of vodka—and arranged them on the bed beside me.
Settling back against the headboard, I let the day’s tension drain out in a long exhale, eyes glued to the screen.
The game was already moving fast, and I didn’t want to miss another second.
This was my way of being there with him, even if I was a thousand miles away.
Second period crawled on, and Minnesota Wild kept pressing, teeth bared, sticks slashing, but Surge held firm.
Tucker cleared the puck, and Aiden streaked across the ice, skates cutting tight lines.
I picked out Landon on his wing, and Grayson trailing.
Landon broke toward the goal, but his shot was blocked easily.
The rebound ricocheted to Aiden, who snapped it past the defense and into Landon’s path again—goal.
I jumped so hard a good third of my drink sloshed out of the bottle and soaked the covers.
A few seconds later, something bad happened. I tried to make sense of the scuffle on ice, the ref’s call that definitely got The Surge guys angry, and Tucker moping to the bench.
“WHAT?” My consternation ricocheted off the walls. “That was an ass call, Ref, and you know it.”
Peanuts went flying at the TV to punctuate my frustration. I wasn’t totally sure what I was angry about, but it felt good enough to mirror the guys’ mood. Surge skated it out of the zone, Aiden dug in, and boom—he got body-checked hard into the boards, knees wobbling, head whipping back.
“Fuck,” I muttered, sitting upright. I held my breath until the moment he bounced back up, still intact. I pressed my palm to my mouth, heart slamming, fingers digging into the blanket.
The buzzer sounded to call an end to the period, and when Aiden skated back to the bench, he looked right at the camera as he passed.
Flicking his helmet up, it suddenly felt as if he were right in front of me, those blue eyes pouring into mine.
A wink, followed by a two-finger salute before disappearing from my screen.
I sank into the mountain of pillows at my back with a stupid grin. That had been for me. Just mine. He knew I’d be watching, and that was his way of bridging the distance between San Antonio and Denver.
My heart was still fluttering when the game picked back up a few minutes later. I’d gone through two tiny vodkas and one whole can of peanuts. But there were no rules on game night, so whatever.
Third period didn’t give any mercy. Minnesota came at them with everything, reckless skating, shots flying, body blocks at every turn. Hunter blocked one attempt, then another, and a third scraped the post. All in a matter of seconds.
My hands clenched the blanket, and I reconsidered my life choices. A few months ago, the biggest stressor in my life was getting into art school. Things were so simple and clean cut back then.
Then Aiden popped up at the center line, zigzagged through defenders, slapped the puck to Landon who faked, pivoted, and tapped it back.
Aiden spun, lifted the thing as if he were going for goal.
I rocked up onto my knees, one fist annihilating a half-empty packet of gummy bears.
But instead of taking the shot, Aiden fooled the defense and flicked it across to Landon instead. This time I was ready for it. GOAL.
There was no stopping them. The chants from the crowd almost drowned out the commentators, making me wish I was there instead of here. Although here had been good to me in the most surprising way.