Summary:

So here he was. About to walk through the door into the empty-looking tattoo shop. Which he had researched extensively and had the best reviews. And he’d specifically called and asked if they could accommodate a private, after-hours appointment. So it would be really rude for him to bail now. He just needed to move his legs...

As he contemplated calling and cancelling and offering to just pay over the phone as an apology for wasting their time, Shane saw someone walk up to the glass door and open it, sticking his head outside.

“Want to come in, or are we doing tattoo out here?” The man asked, startling Shane out of his thought-spiral. He was tall, broad, and a lopsided smirk pulled at his left cheek, dimpling it. Shane swallowed hard.

OR: Shane's whole team is getting Stanley Cup tattoos. Ilya's a tattoo artist. Bon appetit.