Page 91 of Try Hard
After what must have been fifteen minutes of silence, she slowly pulled her hand down the bed beside my body and stopped, hovering over the hem of my shorts—we looked like we were dressed for opposing seasons. Her sweatshirt and pyjama pants at odds with my shorts and a tank top.
“What’s your tattoo?” she asked, her voice little more than a murmur.
I breathed a laugh. The shorts I was wearing were too long to see it. She must have been holding onto that question since the rugby match, which was impossibly relatable. I couldn’t count the number of questions I was holding onto for her.
Holding her tighter with one hand so she wouldn’t think I wanted her to move, I reached down to pull the fabric higher, revealing the black ink.
Ophelia lifted her head to get a better look before she looked at me questioningly. Her fingers traced over the tattoo at my nod of consent. “Coordinates?”
I hummed, barely even able to breathe with her touching me. They were high on my outer thigh. Sure, people on the pitch touched me there sometimes, but that was a million miles from what Ophelia was doing.
“Soph’s idea, actually,” I said, looking down at my thigh instead of her perfect, inquisitive face. “The top one is for the Olympics. The second is the World Cup, and the third is the location of my first official team. My big break. It felt right.”
She nodded, looking at the tattoo reverently. “Did Sophie do it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m assuming it was not a stick and poke.”
I laughed, leaning back into the bed, wrapping both of my arms tightly around her again. “It was not. I love Soph, but if she’s going to tattoo me—if anyone is—it’ll be with a proper gun.”
“That’s very fair.” She hesitated, her fingers still tracing over the numbers on my thigh, her head settled back onto my chest. I didn’t feel the urge to stop her, to cover myself up from her. “Do you have others?”
“Just one.” That one wouldn’t be hard to show her either, even though few others had ever seen it.
Her fingers paused on my thigh. “Can I ask what it is?”
“Of course.” I reluctantly sat up to point at the spot on my ribs. “Olympic rings. Do you want to see it?”
Something flickered across her face as her eyes dropped to the spot in question, usually hidden by the band of my bra and currently tucked away under my tank top. She nodded. “Yes, please.”
Slowly, I pulled the hem of my shirt up, careful not to completely flash her. Her gaze was hypnotic as she followed the trail of my shirt, taking in the exposed skin. She’d seen most of it before—I’d stood in front of her in just my sports bra after the game—but there was a distinctly different feel to it when we were lying in my bed together.
Ophelia moved to her knees, leaning over me to get a better look at the small, colourful Olympic rings inked forever into my skin. Her hand moved instinctively, but she froze when she realised, her gaze darting to my eyes. “Can I?”
“Of course,” I whispered. She could do anything she wanted to.
Her fingertips were soft and warm and electric as they traced over my ribs. I wasn’t sure anyone had ever touched me as reverently as she did. Sure, people sometimes looked at me like I was some weird goddess of celebrity or sport, but it wasn’t thesame as the way Ophelia treated me. I wasn’t infallible to her. I was real and precious and ephemeral. And that was so much better.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fia
“Did Sophie do this one too?” I asked Eve as my fingertip traced the interlocking rings on her ribs.
I probably shouldn’t have even thought about touching her there, let alone asked. The spot was private, usually hidden. In all the press I’d seen about her, I’d never seen even a hint of this tattoo. The one on her thigh had been teasing glimpses of black ink, but this one did not exist in the social consciousness.
She laughed softly, her voice so rich and sweet and uniquely hers that it made me want to cry. “No. I got it done right after we won that medal. It felt right.”
I nodded. That was easy to understand.
Her eyes were molten pools of thoughts, and questions, and so much care that my insides ached when I met her gaze. She was beautiful in any light, but the soft yellow glow from the one lamp she’d turned on was impossibly romantic.
She quirked a grin before wrapping her arms around my waist and dragging me down over her. My palms smacked intothe mattress on either side of her head, and she didn’t let me go as I hovered above her.
“And you, Ophelia? Any tattoos?” Her gaze almost wandered down my body but I saw her catch herself and stop, holding fast to the intense eye contact we had.
“No tattoos, no.” I thought about telling her about my piercings but there wasn’t any way to mention nipple piercings while you were hovering over someone in bed without it sounding… propositional. With how she was holding me, I was glad I’d opted to keep the padded bra. If she concentrated, I wondered whether she’d be able to simply feel them.
