Page 6 of Flame After the Fumble

He sighs and stretches his neck to flick his eyes my way. “You’re a football player who takes hits daily. I think you can handle it.”

“Will you hold my hand?”

“Don’t be a baby. You’re a grown man.”

I reach for the volume once more, hoping this time he doesn’t see me. “I’m serious.”

Instead of swatting my hand away, Ryan turns off the radio. “Cut it.”

I raise my hands in innocence. “Shutting up.”

The shop is empty, so it isn’t a long wait before a needle drives into my arm. I’m not a psychopath like my new friend, so I keep it simple for my first tat: my number thirteen on the inside of my bicep. It’s everything that’s saved me. Without football, I’m nothing.

My body winces at the pain of the recurring jab into my arm. “Ow!”

“Stay still or the lines will be crooked,” the tattoo artist scoffs as he continues to torture me.

“Classic.” Ryan huffs with his arm crossed over his chest, leaned against the wall.

“Have something to share, Shane?”

“Nope. It’s what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?” Annoyed with his judgmental aura, I push. “My number?” Keeping my arm still so my ink doesn’t get messed up, I stretch my neck to look his way. “I’m more than just a pretty face, Shane.” The corners of my eyes burn as heat rushes through my body as I’m transported back to the reason football means everything to me. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He grins with understanding. “Likewise, but that’s not what I meant.” He laughs as he leans up against the wall. “I meant how you’re crying like a child for a fine line tattoo.”

“It hurts,” I whine in mock agony.

He shakes his head back and forth before whipping his phone out from his pocket. “Smile.”

I flash my pearly whites his way. “Send it to me so I can send it to Violet.”

“Who’s Violet?” he asks.

“Little sister and best friend.”

“Odd,” he shares as his jaw tightens in confusion.

“She’ll be at Springs U next year, but don’t get any ideas.”

Huffing out a breath and plastering on a hardened look, he continues, “I can get girls on my own, thanks.”

“Not this girl. She’s off limits.”

“Why? She’s yours or something?”

I make a vomit noise and point my finger down my throat. “Ew. No. I’ve never seen Violet like that. I just have a hardenough time fending off all the guys who aren’t good enough for her.”

“Almost done,” the tattoo artist mumbles as he puts the finishing touches on my number. He wipes it off a few times, removing the excess ink from my light pink skin. “Check it out.”

I get up from the black leather chair and get a closer look in the mirror. The black fine line letters jump from my pale skin and I can’t stop admiring the work. “It’s sick.”

The nagging sound of my alarm jolts my exhausted, numb body out of bed. I flip around, tossing my sheet off the bed to reach for the buzzing phone on the nightstand. The screen glows too bright for my sleepy eyes adjusting to the dark room. What scares me more is the fact that layered in front of a picture of Vi and I at my last high school football game, is the time: 7:00 in the morning. I have fifteen minutes to kick myself into high gear and head to the field in order to make it for our 7:30 a.m. report time.Shoot.I know I set my alarm earlier than that. Or did I?

Stumbling frantically out of bed, I throw on the nearest pair of shorts, a team shirt, and a pair of questionably stained socks. I jog into the bathroom to brush my teeth before bolting out the door and into my car. Breaking traffic rules is my specialty, and I don’t need Coach’s red flag radar on me during the first few weeks of camp. I’m talented, but being a liability is a quick and easy way to find myself off the team before the season starts.

Screeching into the parking lot, I tap my phone to do a quick time check: 7:21 a.m. Awesome. I have time to get to the locker room, throw my stuff down, and make it with minutes to spare before the team huddles up. I speed-walk into the facility, turning a corner before slamming into a beast at the locker room door.

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