Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Living life, loving life, and ready to play football,” I said, meaning every word of it. “So hyped for this new season.”
“I keep seeing you in the news,” Zeke said, casting me a glance from above his thick-rimmed glasses. Zeke was old, greying, and had always treated me like he was my tough-guy tattoo artist grandpa.
I rolled my eyes. “They never leave me alone. Did you see the headlines from earlier this week?”
He shook his head as he traced out my tattoo art. “Something bad happen?”
I grabbed my phone, navigating to one of the dumb, sensational news articles that had been published about me a few days ago.
“Bunch of bullshit,” I said, showing him the phone. “Police Called on Storm Rosling Again—Badass or Menace to Society? How am I a menace to society?”
He scanned the headline. “Wow, police actually came down,” he said quietly.
“The headlines make it seem like I was causing a scene. But the other asshole was the one trying to start something.”
Zeke chuckled. “That’s what they all say.”
“Fair. But it’s actually the truth.”
He nodded. I turned around as he started to place the tattoo stencil onto my back shoulder, and I checked it out in the mirror and approved.
“So what happened?” he asked as he finalized the placement.
“Well, I was at the bar down in Denver with Kace Tomlin,” I said.
“God, that guy’s a good player,” Zeke said. “You’re the best player, of course, but Tomlin is a beast.”
“Oh, he’s beyond my level, no doubt,” I said. “Best thing about being part of the Ferals is that I get to play alongside a QB like Kace. But this meathead in the bar called Kace something that I couldn’t tolerate.”
Zeke frowned at me. “What did he say?”
“The kind of thing that a fucking homophobe calls an openly gay guy like Kace,” I said. “I’ve only known Kace personally for a couple of months, but I’m not letting anyone call him that. So, I threatened to sock the guy in the jaw.”
“But you didn’t actually punch him?”
“Got close,” I said. “But the police got called, and because I’m the media’s favorite darling these days, the headlines end up making me look like a ragehead.”
Zeke whistled. “You’re not a ragehead. You are a badass, though. They got that right.”
I gave him a little wink. “You know it.”
“Sit back,” he said. “This claw ain’t going to tattoo itself.”
I pulled in a long breath, lying back down face-first on the tattoo bench. I groaned. “I’m not ready.”
“You never are.”
The buzzing of the tattoo gun began, and I groaned as Zeke put the tattoo needle to the skin above my shoulder. I winced, breathing deep.
The upper back wasn’t even the most painful place to get a tattoo. If anything, it should have been relaxing. Most people didn’t bat an eyelash at upper back tattoos, but even the small claw I was getting today hurt like a bitch.
I’d been knocked out on the football field, had broken bones, and gotten into plenty of fights back when I was a teenager, but tattoos were still the one thing that made me feel like a little baby.
But I was getting the little claw, no matter how much it hurt.
Because I was proud as fuck to be a member of the Denver Ferals.
The team that had always been my team, growing up. When I was poorer than dirt, made fun of, and told I was trash as a kid in school, I’d come home and watch recorded Ferals games over and over, wishing I could be one of them.
I thought it could never happen.
But I was one of them, now.
I’d now been a pro football player for six years, after starting out as a late-round draft pick for Texas who nobody cared about. Over the years, I’d become better and better. A whole fucking lot better. A wide receiver good enough to be picked for the Ferals.
My Ferals.
That was why I was going to get their signature claw tattoo alongside the others on my back. And why I wasn’t going to let anyone talk shit about my new friend and teammate Kace. I wasn’t gay, but I’d always hated homophobes. Who the hell cared if a guy wanted other guys, anyway?
I white-knuckled my way through the rest of the tattoo. Afterward, Zeke showed me what it looked like in the mirror. A fierce Ferals claw, just above the long-stem rose for my mom and my grandpop’s initials.
“You’re the best, Zeke,” I said after the session was over. “Got to get back home for this renovation meeting, otherwise I’d ask if you wanted lunch.”
“You’re redoing your new place?”
I nodded. “First nice place I’ve ever bought. I want to make it my own. The house has fucking killer bones, but it was an old rich guy’s third vacation home, and he really didn’t take good care of the place. When it’s all done, I’ll invite you to the housewarming party, don’t even worry.”