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Crew

I t felt like nothing more than a subtle prick, maybe the equivalent of a minor bee sting.

Getting a tattoo wasn’t something I necessarily saw myself ever doing. I guess I was never entirely opposed to the idea, but it seemed like some people grew up knowing the exact tattoo they wanted, and I just simply wasn’t one of those people.

Waking up this morning, violently hungover and feeling like I’d been hit by a truck after playing three games this weekend, a tattoo hadn’t really been on my agenda for the day.

Everyone had been out until two in the morning, celebrating our championship win. So of course, no one woke up on time for class, but we did wake up fighting over who got to stick their head in the toilets first.

A lot of Pedialyte and Tylenol later, the girls decided to treat us to lunch to celebrate our win, and it was then that they told us about their tattoo appointment.

Now, Lane and I had somehow ended up in the parlor chairs, getting tattoos of our own.

I watched the needle glide across my skin, branding me with the number that would forever be part of me.

1.

Lane’s number.

I glanced at his wrist as he stood beside my chair, noticing the red, irritated skin surrounding the 18 , and I couldn’t fucking believe he loved me enough to permanently stamp me onto him.

The idea of matching tattoos may have been a little cliché, but it was entirely unplanned, and we hadn’t had the idea until we walked in.

Lane hadn’t decided what team he would be committing to, and I didn’t want to pressure him further about coming to Chicago, but if I lost him to the Minnesota Wild, at least I’d have part of him with me.

The girls, however, had their tattoos planned out for weeks, having kept it a secret from us. Theirs were so tiny that it only took the guy ten minutes each.

Kota had half a heart on her pinky, the other half etched into Bridget’s pinky. Definitely cliché. They probably got the idea off Pinterest or something, but Kota was excited about it, and I didn’t have a death wish, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

When we first moved into our apartment, I thought it was a fucking disaster. And all I could do at the time was curse myself for whatever I’d done in a past life or this current life to deserve such horrible karma.

But some tragedies really were just blessings in disguise.

The universe worked in weird ass ways, and it felt like Kota coming into my life was what I needed to become more mature.

She didn’t deal with my shit. It was like she was immune to it all, and I’d become so obsessed with her that I’d shed all those horrible parts of me to fit the image of what she deserved.

I was more emotionally aware overall, less interested in surrounding myself in one-night stands or meaningless interactions with girls.

Kota was as real and as strong as a girl could be, and I hated that she had to go through everything she did, but I was fucking grateful that it made her who she is.

As the tattoo artist finished up, a dull sting spread throughout my wrist, and all I could do to numb the pain was watch Kota across the room while she took pictures with Bridget of their tattoos.

Her smile was radiant, pulling me deeper into the trance that she’d had me in for months now.

I couldn’t wait to hop out of this chair and kiss that fucking smile.