33. Ben
BEN
We don’t go all the way.
Seattle gets knocked out in the first round. It fucking sucks.
At the beginning of the season, nobody expected us to be there at all. We spent too long below the playoff line, gave away too many leads, and had to fight for every point we got back. Making the postseason should count for something.
It doesn’t feel like it in the locker room after the last game.
Nolan sits beside me with his elbows on his knees and his jersey still on. Half the room is staring at the floor. Bobby has been quiet so long that I keep looking over to make sure he’s still there.
I’ve been in enough losing rooms to know nobody wants perspective yet. Two seasons ago, I held the Cup. Last season ended with an overtime loss in June. Losing in April hurts exactly as much as losing later when the series was close enough to take.
“We should’ve won tonight,” Nolan says.
His curls are still damp with sweat, crushed flat where his helmet sat. I put my forearms on my knees beside his. “Yeah.”
I don’t tell Nolan we did better than people expected. He knows. He also knows we had chances in the series and didn’t finish them. Right now, that’s the part that matters.
I sit with my shoulder against his until we’re ready to get changed.
When Nolan finally stands, he pulls his jersey over his head and drops it at his feet. “You’re coming home with me.”
He says it like I’ve been given an assignment. I pick up his jersey before someone steps on it. “Okay.”
The season ending does leave Nolan enough time to heal a new tattoo before he starts training hard again. By the time a spot opens at the studio, he has been thinking about the piece for months.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m allowed.”
Nolan hooks both hands beneath the hem and lifts.
I watch his stomach and chest appear before the shirt catches briefly in his curls.
He frees it and drops it across the back of the chair beside mine.
Most of the left side of his body is already covered in black-and-gray ink.
It runs from his forearm over his shoulder, spreads across his chest, and climbs his neck.
The right side is almost bare except for the piece on his thigh.
The studio is in Georgetown behind a black door with no sign. Framed drawings and photographs of healed work cover the walls, and the artist’s room at the back has a padded table with one chair beside it for me.
Nolan has been trying to get onto Rafael’s schedule since that locker-room argument over where to put the tattoo. His books were closed the first time Nolan asked, and today’s appointment only happened because somebody canceled.
I looked him up afterward. People fly in from other countries to have him work on them. Nolan acted like I was being weird when I checked the shop license and read the inspection reports.
It was a reasonable thing to do.
“You can sit down,” Nolan says. He’s standing in front of a full-length mirror in jeans and socks, turning enough to look at the blank space beneath his right ribs. “This is going to take a while.”
I stay beside the mirror. “He hasn’t put the stencil on yet.”
“And that needs your supervision?”
“You asked me to come.”
“Yeah.” Nolan runs his palm down his side, testing the spot Sindre suggested in the locker room months ago. “I wanted you here.”
I cross the room and put my hand over the bare skin beneath his ribs. Months ago, I asked if he was ticklish there and nearly told the whole locker room that I’d had my mouth on the same spot.
Nolan’s stomach tightens when my fingers reach the softer skin below his ribs. He elbows me without much force. “Don’t start.”
I drag my fingertips lightly toward his hip. Nolan twists away and catches my wrist. “Ben.”
“You are.”
“I’m going to have a needle there most of the afternoon. I don’t need you making it worse first.”
The new ink will be off-limits tonight. Rafael sent the aftercare instructions before the appointment, and Nolan forwarded them to me because he knew I would ask.
Once the tattoo is healed, I’m going to follow every line with my fingers and my tongue.
He can complain about being ticklish while I find out whether the skin feels any different.
For now, I move my hand to his hip where it won’t interfere.
Nolan studies my face in the mirror. “Whatever you’re thinking, you have to wait until it heals.”
“I read the instructions.” I press my thumb into the top of his hip and lean down to kiss his bare shoulder.
Nolan turns his head and catches my mouth before I can step away. The kiss lasts long enough that his palm covers my nape and my grip on his hip tightens.
A knock sounds before the door opens. Nolan lets me go as Rafael comes in carrying a sheet of transfer paper and the drawing he approved.
He’s lean, with silver threaded through his dark hair and heavy blackwork covering both arms down to his knuckles.
The heron on the page is long and narrow, its legs disappearing into reeds that will curve toward Nolan’s hip.
“Ready?” he asks.
Nolan turns away from me and lifts his arm. “Yeah.”
He holds the drawing beside Nolan’s right side, checks the size, then points me toward the chair. “I need the light.”
I get out of his way and sit down.
Nolan grins at me as if Rafael has won something.
Rafael has him stand straight while he marks two points on Nolan’s skin, then lays the transfer against his ribs and smooths it toward his hip.
Nolan has to lift his arm over his head.
The position stretches his side and makes every line of his body look sharper.
Rafael peels the paper away. Purple lines remain on Nolan’s skin. He sends Nolan to the mirror while he studies the placement from behind.
Nolan turns one way, then the other. The heron’s body follows the empty space below his ribs, with one wing reaching toward his stomach. It balances the heavier ink on his left side without matching it.
“What do you think?” Nolan asks me.
I get up and stand behind him. He’s looking at the tattoo in the mirror. I’m looking at the point where the reeds stop above his waistband.
I point to the reeds above his waistband. “The bottom should come up. Your gear will hit it there.”
Rafael checks the spot with one finger. “He’s right. You’ll hate that placement when you start training.”
Nolan looks at it again, then nods. “Move it.”
Rafael wipes the transfer away and starts again. The next placement clears the waistband without crowding Nolan’s ribs. Nolan takes longer at the mirror this time. He looks at the new piece beside the old ones, then raises his arm and checks what happens when his body moves.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s it.”
While Rafael lowers the table and sets out what he needs, Nolan sits on its edge and I take the chair beside his knee.
Rafael glances at me. “I should’ve asked earlier. Who did you bring?”
Nolan rests one hand on my knee. “That’s my boyfriend, Ben.”
I want him to say it again. I cover his hand with mine instead. Rafael offers me his, and I shake it.
“Good to meet you,” he says.
“Thanks for fitting him in.”
Rafael turns back to Nolan and tells him how to lie on the table. Nolan settles on his left side with his right arm raised, leaving the fresh stencil exposed. I move my chair to where he can see me without twisting his neck.
Rafael pulls on his gloves and picks up the machine. Its buzz fills the room.
Nolan reaches back until his hand finds mine. The needle touches his side, and his fingers clamp hard enough to grind my knuckles together.
I let him keep doing it.
Thank you for reading Line Change!