Page 4 of Full Tilt
“Okay, I think we’re done.”
He slides his small roller stool across to a metal chest of drawers, and I stand from the bench, already making my way over to the full-length mirror.
“So, I went with a shading technique called stippling to create the intricate details you can see on the scales.”
The artist holds the mirror he grabbed from the drawer unit and brings it closer to my fresh tattoo.
Jesus, it’s good. I underestimated this guy.
Not that I plan on telling him that.
“You missed a bit,” I bite out.
Like he just found out his puppy died, the guy flares his eyes wide before carefully examining each section of the snake.
I turn to face him, a usual smirk overtaking my expression. “I’m just fucking with you. It’s a good piece.”
He wipes above his brow, genuine perspiration emerging. “Holy shit, you sounded serious. Like, deadass pissed.”
“Nah. You’ll know when I’m pissed. That was my friendly voice,” I reply, taking a seat back on the bench so he can wrap the tattoo.
He doesn’t respond as he begins treating and bandaging.
“I gotta admit …” To my surprise, he begins talking. Again. “I was a bit taken aback when you booked in for September. Don’t you guys have preseason now? I thought getting tatted was only allowed in the offseason?”
I can’t help the groan as it leaves my throat. Tipping my chin over my shoulder, I raise a brow in his direction. “Tell me you don’t watch hockey without telling me you don’t watch hockey.”
He snaps a piece of medical tape from its holder. “I don’t follow.”
My smirk returns, even though he can’t see it clearly. “Because if you watched the game, you’d know I’m not the kind of player who follows the rules.”
He snorts, securing the wrap against my skin. “Oh, I don’t need to watch it to know that. The second my new boss found out who we had booked, he told me to watch my mouth.”
I like this guy’s new boss, and I haven’t even met him.
“He also told me your dad liked getting under people’s skin when he played too.” He laughs again at a thought. “I tattoo people, and you punch them. Looks like we share something in common.”
When he finishes up on the dressing, I grab my shirt from the back of a chair and throw it on, ignoring his comment about my dad. Aside from confirming to the media that I was his son when I started playing under his last name, I haven’t publicly talked about him since. The aim isn’t to perpetuate his legacy, but to bury it under mine.
“Hockey fights are a standard part of every game; the crowd feeds off them, and despite what people claim, the age of the enforcer isn’t dead,” I reply.
The guy shakes his head and makes for the counter, ready to ring up my bill. I grab my bag and follow him.
“I’d make a shit enforcer. I never let people wind me up,” he says, taking my Amex and processing the payment. “I’m so laid-back; I’m practically horizontal.”
I balk. “Who said anything about letting people wind you up?” I point at my chest when I take my credit card back. “I’m the antagonist, not the other way around.”
He quirks a brow at me, green eyes looking doubtful. “I don’t know, man. You sound like you’re getting wound up right about now.”
I grin. “That’s what I allow people to think. I’m always in control.Always. If they have a pulse, they’re eating out of my bare palms.”
He snorts again. “Everyone has an Achilles’ heel. Even Superman.”
“And like I told you twice already?—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves a hand in front of him. “You’re not like most people.”
“Exactly.” I tap my temple twice, masking the real truth behind a self-assured expression. Because, in reality, I do have one weakness—or thorn in my side.
