Page 30

EDEN

I 'd tattooed five professional athletes before I swore off sleeping with them entirely.

Like most bad decisions in my life, it only took one to ruin it for the rest—Blake, the six-foot-four basketball player who'd convinced me his world could revolve around something other than his ego.

He was wrong. I was stupid. Chicago would be different.

The Inkwell Arts Collective gleamed under the late afternoon sun, all exposed brick and gallery lighting.

Exactly the kind of upscale place my clients expected.

The kind that justified my prices and reputation.

I adjusted the height of my tattoo chair, unpacked my machines, and arranged my inks with the precision of a surgeon.

My space, at least for the next twelve weeks.

"Perfect timing!" Eleanor, the studio manager, appeared in the doorway. "Your first Chicago client called to confirm. Some baby-faced hockey player named Chase. Said he's been on your waitlist for months."

"Hockey player?" I groaned, setting down my tattoo machine. "Fucking fantastic. Just what I need—another entitled athlete."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Not a sports fan?"

“Let’s just say I’ve had my fill of jocks with god complexes.” I said, adjusting the lighting above my station.

The last athlete I'd gotten involved with had cost me more than money—he'd nearly cost me my soul. Blake Morrison, rising NBA star, had wanted a trophy girlfriend who looked good in Instagram photos and never questioned his priorities. I'd learned that lesson in the most painful way possible.

Never again.

"Might want to reconsider that policy in Chicago," Eleanor laughed. "This is a serious hockey town. The Renegades basically own the city."

"I don't care if they own the moon. As long as they sit still while I work and tip well when I'm done." I plugged in my machines, the familiar buzz settling my nerves. "Athletes are just canvases to me—nothing more."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She'd seen this before—my walls going up before I'd even met a client. Three months. I could handle twelve weeks of anything, especially if I kept everyone at arm's length where they belonged.

My phone buzzed with Sloane's face lighting up the screen.

"Tell me you're not already planning your escape route," she said when I answered.

"I just finished setting up my station, give me at least twenty-four hours before planning a jailbreak." I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder while organizing my stencil papers.

"That's generous. You lasted six hours in Toronto before texting me rental car prices."

"Toronto didn't have a bathtub the size of a small pool in my sublet." I smiled despite myself. "How's New York?"

"Loud, expensive, perfect. When are you going to stop this nomad bullshit and join me here permanently? I found this incredible space in Brooklyn that would be perfect for a studio."

I rolled my eyes even though she couldn't see me. "The day I sign a lease longer than six months is the day you should check me for a brain tumor."

"One day you're going to find a reason to stay somewhere, Eden."

"Says the woman who's dated three different DJs this month."

"That's different. I'm sampling the buffet. You're refusing to even enter the restaurant."

The bell above the studio door chimed, saving me from another round of Sloane's "put down roots" lecture.

"Gotta go. My first Chicago canvas just walked in."

"Is he hot?" Sloane asked immediately.

"Goodbye, Sloane."

The guy who walked in was practically trembling with excitement, clutching a folder that I assumed contained reference images. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me, mouth slightly open. His eyes widened to the size of hockey pucks—appropriate, given his profession.

"Holy shit," he whispered, then immediately blushed crimson.

"I mean—sorry—you're Eden Clarke. You're actually Eden Clarke.

" He ran a hand through his hair nervously, making it stand up at odd angles.

"I've followed your work for two years. I have a whole Pinterest board just of your geometric designs. "

I raised an eyebrow, more amused than annoyed. "That's me. And you must be Chase."

"Yes! Chase Miller." He practically tripped over himself approaching my station, then froze, seemingly unsure whether to offer a handshake, a hug, or simply combust on the spot.

"I can't believe I actually got an appointment.

My teammate said he knew someone who got tattooed by you in Toronto and I immediately went on your website but you were booked for months and I set a calendar alert for when your Chicago dates opened and—" He stopped, taking a breath. "I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

"Just a bit," I said, gesturing to my chair. "Have a seat, Chase. Let's talk about what we're doing today."

He sat down reverently, like he was being granted an audience with royalty instead of just another tattoo artist. "A compass. Right here." He pointed to his inner forearm, hands slightly shaking. "I've been dreaming about this for months."

I pulled on my gloves with a snap. "So you're a hockey player?"

"Yeah! Rookie season with the Renegades." His face lit up like I'd asked about his firstborn child. "First round draft pick. Tonight's actually a big game for me. If I play well, Captain might move me up to the second line."

I nodded like I understood what that meant while preparing my station. "And why a compass?"

"To find my way, you know? In the league, in the city. Everything's new and I want to remember to stay true to myself with all the pressure." He rubbed his hands nervously on his jeans. "Captain says the first season determines what kind of player you'll become."

"Captain sounds very profound," I said dryly, transferring the stencil to his skin. "This placement work for you?"

Chase stared at his arm like I'd just placed the Hope Diamond on it. "It's perfect. Captain's gonna think this is so cool."

"Your captain seems very important to you," I said, picking up my machine.

Chase laughed. "You really don't follow hockey, do you? Captain of the Renegades? Best leader in the league?"

"Sorry to disappoint, but I couldn't tell a hockey player from a barista unless they were holding a stick or a latte." The machine hummed to life in my hand. "Now sit still and tell me if you need a break."

The needle met skin, and Chase hissed before settling into the chair.

"You're the first person I've met who doesn't know who our Captain is," he said after a moment, wonder in his voice.

I looked up, meeting his eyes with a smirk. "Trust me, Chase. That's exactly how I prefer it."

As the tattoo session progressed, Chase's nervous energy settled into a steady stream of hockey talk. I nodded at appropriate intervals while focusing on the clean lines of the compass taking shape on his skin.

"So, what made you choose Chicago?" he asked during a brief break.

I dabbed the excess ink away carefully. "I go where the work takes me. Chicago has a good art scene, and the studio offered me a residency." I adjusted his arm slightly. "Three months here, then on to the next city."

"Three months? That's it?" Chase sounded genuinely disappointed. "But that's barely half a season."

"That's kind of the point," I said, resuming the tattoo. "I don't do seasons. I do gigs."

"Don't you get tired of moving around?"

I paused, considering the question more seriously than I intended to. "No. The opposite, actually. I get restless staying in one place."

Chase winced slightly as I worked on a sensitive area. "Captain would understand that. He's all about discipline and routine, but he gets the whole... independence thing. Not that he'd ever leave Chicago—the city would riot."

"Sounds like you've got a serious man-crush on this captain of yours," I teased, changing out my needle.

Chase's cheeks flushed pink. "It's not like that! He's just... everyone respects him, you know? When he speaks, the whole locker room goes quiet."

“Sounds like a cult. Is there chanting? Matching robes?” I said with a smirk.

"You'd like him," Chase insisted.

I wiped away a small blood spot. "Trust me, I've tattooed enough sports guys to know the type."

"So that's why you don't date athletes?"

I stopped tattooing and raised an eyebrow. "Who said anything about dating?"

"Oh! No, I didn't mean—" Chase stammered, his face now bright red. "Just something Lucky—I mean Nate—said when he recommended you. That you were talented and hot but wouldn't date a hockey player if he was the last man on ice. His words, not mine!"

I laughed despite myself. "Well, your friend Lucky isn't wrong. Athletes stay in the chair, not in my bed."

"Because of your ex?" Chase asked, then immediately looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. "Sorry, that was way too personal. Lucky mentioned something about a basketball player and I shouldn't have?—"

"Careful, Chase," I cut him off, my voice cooler than before. "You're getting close to having a compass that points south-southwest instead of true north."

"Sorry," he mumbled, wisely shutting up.