Saturday afternoon. Your room. You’re sitting on the bed, with your hair stuck in a messy bun. He arrives, throwing his body to the side, with no idea what he is about to discover.
“Hi, my girlfriend,” he says, already lying with his head on your lap. “I scored an own goal in training today and thought of you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Clearly.”
He laughs and closes his eyes while you caress his messy wires. For a second everything is peace.
Until you say:
“I did something today.”
He opens one eye, suspicious.
“Did you cut Brian?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you eat that suspicious noodle that Shannon left in the fridge?”
“No... although I thought about it.”
You turn your face a little.
And pulls the hair, revealing what’s behind the ear:
A small, thin, black “7”. Discreet, but full of meaning.
His number on the team.
The exact place where he always kisses - every time he hugs you from behind. Every game. Every Sunday. Every “good night, my love”.
It crashes.
It’s completely dumb.
“Did you... tattoo?” He asks, with a hoarse voice, almost choked.
“It’s...”
He sits slowly, his eyes fixed on the tattoo. He runs his fingers gently, as if it were made of glass. And then he gives a nervous, emotional chuckling.
“You’re kidding... you tattooed my number.”
“Yeah, but not because of the team. Because of you.”
“That... that’s not just cute. This is like... level ‘marry me on the rugby court and adopt seven cats’. Do you have any idea? I— I HAVE A NUMBER ON THE BACK OF YOUR NECK!”
“It’s actually behind the ear.”
“IT GOT WORS!”
He laughs, pulls you hard on your lap. The face stuck in your neck.
“Now I’m going to kiss this place every day. At least. This became a contractual obligation. Universal law. Decree of the Supreme Council of Lucky Valentines.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“But now officially marked on your skin. And on your neck! My God, I’M A TATTOO.”
You smile against his chest.
And he whispers, softly:
“If you knew what this means to me...”
You kiss his cheek.
“You don’t need to say. I already know.”