Page 11 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now. Making out with a bloke in a dark alley near a public pub, with half the city’s nightlife two pints away from pulling their phones out? Yeah. Real subtle, Crawford.

Sunday was my day off. It was supposed to be all peace and recovery. A long lie-in, stretch session, maybe a roast with the lads. Instead, I spent the whole fucking day wanting to deck myself. What didn’t help was how goddamn hard I’d been after receiving his voice recording.

Every time I walked past a mirror, all I could think was What the hell were you thinking? And yes, before you ask: Did I spend the next two days systematically searching my own name for bullshit press? You’re damn straight I did.

Every major rugby outlet. Every back-alley social media account with a blurry logo and too many numbers.

Hell, I even checked the bloody Daily Mail comments section.

Twice. And nothing. Not a single story. Not a grainy shot of a side-alley kiss or a headline accusing me of “getting cosy with a mystery man.”

It should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made me feel worse.

Because what kind of person assumes the bloke they kissed—who drew up sketches for free, who talked moss and tattoos with me like I wasn’t a total guarded arsehole—would run off and sell the story to the press?

Apparently, me. That kind of person is me.

And that’s shit.

It’s not logical. Not fair. Not even remotely who Brent’s shown himself to be. But it’s where my head went—thanks to years of paparazzi, fake stories, fans crossing boundaries, and one unforgettable “hot night with a rugby star” sold to the highest bidder six years ago by someone I’d trusted.

So yeah, it’s messed me up. And that guilt is what leads me here. Not quite on my knees asking for forgiveness, but… close. Close enough that the words come out stiff and heavy in Brent’s studio while he stands watching me like he’s still bracing for a slow-motion car crash.

“I’m sorry,” I say after my initial apology about disappearing on him. “About the other night. I handled it wrong.”

His eyes widen and his cheeks flame red.

“Not about… uhm… I mean about not responding,” I’m quick to say. “I came straight from training. Didn’t want to leave it longer.”

His expression shifts just slightly. It’s still neutral, still holding back, but there’s something softer behind his eyes, like he sees it—the effort, the reach.

He doesn’t know I’ve been checking for a betrayal. He won’t know. That part stays mine.

As does the other part—the one that can’t stop thinking about his hands on me. About the way he took control of the kiss, the weight of his body, the lip ring dragging heat along my skin. Then the sound of his shuddering breaths when he panted my name in the recording.

I’m not here for that. I tell myself that, again and again.

I’m here because he’s talented. His work’s excellent. The designs are on point. I want the sleeve. The rest… is background noise I plan to ignore.

Mostly.

Hopefully.

Maybe.

Brent turns towards the workbench, flips open his sketchbook, and gently lays out the updated sleeve design.

And damn. It’s good.

The structure’s tighter—flowing up from the wrist and wrapping around the elbow in a way that feels intentional.

Like it’s always belonged on my skin. The negative space balances the bold blackwork perfectly, and the elements we’d discussed—sharp lines with symbolic symmetry—are woven in with more depth than I’d imagined.

“You’ve been busy,” I murmur, leaning in to study the shading on the forearm section.

He shrugs casually. “Just fine-tuning. You already gave me a solid foundation to build on.”

I glance up at him briefly. “It’s really bloody good.”

That earns a small smile—nothing smug, just… warm. He pulls a stool over, slides onto it with easy confidence. “So… you still feeling the clean lines through the upper shoulder, or want to soften it a bit?”

I swallow in relief that he’s brushing past my awkward apology and isn’t attempting to apologise again in the flesh, instead jumping to the artwork. “Stick with the clean. I don’t want it to fade into abstract. Feels more like me this way.”

He nods and makes a few notes. “You healed up from that hit in the Bristol match?”

“Mostly.” I shift in the chair, stretching out my side. “I don’t bounce back the way I used to.”

“Ah, yes.” He leans on the table with one elbow, mock-grave. “The tragedy of ageing. Sneaky shit that age thing, huh.”

I grunt out a laugh. “Watch it. I’ve still got a few good years left.” My shoulders lose some of their tension.

“That’s the spirit.” He grins. “To be fair, I get it. I twisted my knee last year crouched under a table to plug in a charger and limped for three days. I’ve accepted that I’m built for sketching and snack runs, not combat.”

“Ever played anything properly?”

He tilts his head. “You mean beyond failed attempts at gym class? Nah. But my little brother plays ice hockey. I think I told you before. He thinks he’s made of titanium.”

I shake my head, amused despite myself. “At college?”

“Yeah. Just about to finish his second year. He’s fast as hell, chirpy as shit. Scored some ridiculous goal the other week and sent me a clip like he was auditioning for the NHL.”

“I watched a couple of games while I was in the States,” I admit, keeping it casual. “Weirdly addictive. Met a few players out there too—tough bastards.”

Brent perks up. “Yeah?”

I nod but don’t elaborate. I don’t share all my business on a whim—not even with someone whose sketches feel like they belong under my skin.

Still, Brent doesn’t push. He just rolls with the shift in conversation like it’s nothing. “You probably saw more professional action in two games than I’ve seen in my entire life. I left the States long before my brother was at college.”

I glance at him—at the way his T-shirt clings to the muscles across his shoulders, the way his forearms flex when he picks up the pencil again, easy and unselfconscious.

He looks like someone who belongs on a pitch, or even a rink.

Strong. Solid. Fit in a way that isn’t about show. Just quiet, functional power.

And I really shouldn’t be thinking that. Let alone saying it. So I just raise a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His mouth tilts into a half-smile. “Guess the ink’s good camouflage.”

I look away before I let myself stare longer than I already have. The moment stretches, comfortable now. Something in me relaxes further—not fully, not foolishly—but just enough to remember what it feels like to sit with someone and talk. Without worrying what’s being dissected beneath the surface.

He flips another page and jots something down. “I’ve got a full backpiece scheduled to finish on Wednesday,” he says. “Guy’s a masochist—four hours in and swears he’s fine while I’m the one needing a break. And then a couple of touch-ups Thursday.”

“Sounds brutal.”

“You’d be surprised how much people love their pain.”

I glance down at the design again. “And after Thursday?”

“Open slate.”

“Lucky you.”

He grins. “Temporarily. What about you?”

“Game on Sunday. At home. Tough side.”

His expression shifts—more serious, like he’s mentally circling the date. “How you feeling about it?”

“We’re third in the table. We need the win to stay in it. So… it’s one of those games.”

“Pressure?”

“Always.”

He nods slowly. He doesn’t offer advice. Doesn’t say something trite like You’ve got this . Instead, he just sits with it and holds it like it’s real. Somehow, that lands deeper than any encouragement could.

Brent scratches something into the margin of the sketch—just a note, maybe a measurement—and leans back in his chair.

He stretches his arms behind his head, T-shirt pulling just slightly across his chest, revealing the ink along his biceps.

It’s unfair, really, how casually good he looks while talking about lines and elbow flow like it’s nothing.

“You know,” he says, voice easy, “I really don’t know that much about rugby.”

I glance up from the design. “Yeah?”

He shrugs. “Caught the odd match at the pub. I get the basics—big blokes, lots of shouting, a ball that bounces like it’s got trauma. But the rest? Bit of a mystery.”

A low laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Not far off.”

Brent grins like he’s proud of himself, then gestures towards me. “You guys look terrifying, though. Watching a scrum’s like watching a bear pit with rules.”

“Not that many rules.”

“That explains a lot.”

I shake my head, but there’s something about his tone—half curious, half teasing—that puts me at ease.

Or maybe I just want to stay here longer, in this quiet pocket of normal.

“It’s the Gallagher Premiership,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“Twelve clubs. Top four at the end of the season go through to play-offs. We’re third right now, so every match matters. ”

“Right.” He nods, considering that. “And Sunday’s kind of a big deal, then?”

“Yeah. We’re playing at home against Newcastle. They’re currently top of the league. If we lose, we’ll drop to fourth.”

Brent hums, more thoughtful now. “Maybe I’ll try and get to a match before the season’s out. Could be fun.”

I nod along, but then he adds, so casually it catches me off-guard, “Not sure I’ve got anyone to go with, though.

Still settling in. New area and all that.

Not exactly drowning in mates.” He says it without hesitation or apology.

Just a simple truth dropped between us like it doesn’t cost him anything.

It’s so at odds with how I live—carefully, strategically, always guarding something.

And for some reason, it makes my chest go tight.

It’s not pity. Not even empathy, exactly. It’s… recognition. Familiarity. And then comes the thought—quick, quiet, and dangerous: I could be his friend.