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

Camden leans over slightly, water bottle still unopened in his hand, and starts flipping.

He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. The little pause he gives on a shoulder mandala, the way his eyes linger on a crow piece I did last spring, that’s enough. It’s not enthusiastic praise, but for a guy like him? I’m reading it as: Yeah, all right. Not bad.

“So,” he says finally, still looking at the binder, “how long you been in the UK?”

“About eight years,” I say, leaning back against the edge of the counter. “Moved over when I was twenty-two. Originally lived in London, then Brighton, now here.”

He glances up. “Why?”

I shrug. “Felt like the right time. Got itchy feet after college. My mom said I always needed to touch every hot stove once before I believed it was hot. Figured if I was gonna make mistakes, might as well make them somewhere cool with better beer.”

Camden hums like that answer’s passable.

“I actually went to community college. I’ve got four not-so-little-anymore siblings, so I thought I’d give my parents a break from crazy college fees,” I add, seeing the flicker of surprise on his face.

“Staying local also meant I could start apprenticing right away. Got a part-time job sweeping floors and scrubbing equipment in this old-school shop when I was seventeen. Worked under a guy named Dutch who smelled like motor oil and menthols. Taught me everything.”

He raises a brow. “Oldest of five, you said?”

“Oh yeah.” I grin. “Twin brothers—chaotic energy, the both of them—then a younger brother who’s basically TikTok incarnate and plays ice hockey at a college like he’s on a personal mission to become a legend. And my baby sister? She’s the scariest of us all. One look from her could end empires.”

Something shifts in his face at that. Maybe recognition. Maybe curiosity. “You always knew you wanted to tattoo?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “Started sketching in middle school, tattooed a banana once in science class. Went downhill from there. But yeah, art was always the plan. Skin just made sense. It’s permanent in a way most things aren’t.”

Camden gives a slow nod and finally— finally —lowers himself into the chair. It’s careful, deliberate, but it’s a start. It also feels like a win.

I don’t react, not outwardly. Internally, I’m doing a little touchdown dance. Quietly, respectfully, but with spirit. “So,” I say, keeping my tone light, “talk to me about what you’re thinking of next. Design? Placement?”

He leans back a little, arms folded, eyes scanning the wall behind me. He’s probably still on the defensive, but less tightly now. A crack, maybe. A sliver of light. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he says. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“Got a general vibe? Meaning behind it? Space you’re thinking?”

Another pause.

My brain helpfully suggests, Ask him to take his shirt off so you can see the canvas.

My brain is also stupid and clearly trying to get me murdered.

Instead, I keep it professional. “You’ve already got some nice work started,” I say, gesturing to his right arm. “If you want to keep building around that, I can work with what’s there. Or start fresh, if it’s something different entirely.”

He nods again. Quiet. Thoughtful. It’s like trying to talk to a boulder that occasionally grunts back.

But he hasn’t left. He hasn’t shut down. And that? That’s something.

I give him another smile, one that’s calm and open. “Take your time. No rush. Just talking tonight, remember. No needles. No pressure. If you’ve got ideas you want to bounce around, we can do that. Or I can just walk you through how I usually work with repeat clients. It’s up to you.”

His sharp, thoughtful eyes flick up to meet mine again.

There’s definitely something ticking behind them, even when he’s giving nothing away.

And I’m convinced he’s sizing me up. Not just about whether I’m good enough for the work, but whether I’m someone he can stand to sit with for hours at a time. Which, to be honest, is fair.

He doesn’t answer right away. He simply watches, still guarded, but doesn’t appear to be quite as closed off. Not anymore.

I hold his gaze without pushing, then nod once and glance down at my tablet. “You mentioned you had a few ideas. Want to tell me about them? Even broad strokes are a good start.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile—God forbid—but something loosening. Barely. Maybe just a twitch of tolerance. But I’ll take it.

Thank fuck we’re getting somewhere, slowly and steadily.

Camden sits in silence for a beat, then finally leans forwards, resting his forearms on his thighs.

His fingers tap lightly against the water bottle, like he’s weighing something up.

“I want a full sleeve,” he says, voice level but low, like he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed to want that. “Left arm.”

I nod, reaching for my sketchpad and pencil without a word. “Any particular concept?”

He shrugs one thick shoulder, then glances towards his right arm, where the existing ink peeks out. “Balance, maybe. Something that complements this side without copying it. Clean lines, nothing too busy. No colour.”

I jot notes, head tilted, keeping my expression neutral. I don’t want him shutting down again. “Theme?”

“Still figuring that out,” he admits, though the way he says it sounds more like I have an idea, but I’m not ready to share it with a stranger. Fair enough. I’ve seen enough guarded clients to know when to push and when to let the idea breathe.

“Got it,” I say. “I’ll put together a few design directions, and you can let me know what hits and what doesn’t.”

He nods once. I can feel the weight of that tiny motion. It’s the closest I’ve gotten to trust all evening.

I glance up from my notes. “If you’re happy with what I come up with—my style, the direction—when would you want to get started?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw shifts. That hesitation returns. “End of the season,” he says eventually.

I just nod like that makes total sense. “June?”

“Mid-June, most likely.”

“I can pencil it in loosely. We’ll firm up details later.”

He gives a grunt of agreement, then looks away. Tense again. I try not to frown, but I feel the shift. Like a breeze just moved through the room.

“Tank mentioned you play rugby,” I say carefully, aiming for conversational more than interview.

The effect is instant. Camden fully tenses—shoulders, jaw, even the set of his mouth. His whole body locks up like someone flipped a switch. My eyes narrow slightly, not in challenge, just curiosity.

Who the hell hurt this guy? Or maybe it wasn’t just one person. Maybe it was a crowd.

I try again, lighter this time. “Are you thinking short sessions or just two or three long ones? I can work around your schedule either way.”

“Long ones,” he says after a second. “I have a wedding in July, so I want it done by then. Then I’m in the States for about eighteen days.”

“Nice,” I say, keeping my tone easy. Does he mean his wedding? Is he getting hitched? My gut tightens in a weird clench of disappointment. He doesn’t offer more about his travel plans—honeymoon, maybe?—and I don’t push. If he wanted to tell me why, he would’ve.

“Timing works,” I add. “I’m heading back to the States too. Just for a week—family thing. I try to head home for the Fourth of July celebrations whenever I can. Just not every year.”

Camden doesn’t respond with more than a basic up nod before he starts to stand, brushing his palms over his jeans. The chair creaks under his weight. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he reaches for the bottle, his fingers flexing like he’s preparing to leave the conversation behind with everything else.

I slide one of my cards across the counter. “Here’s my number,” I say, tone staying low and casual. “If you think of anything you want added, or you’ve got questions—or hell, even if you want to just send reference images—text me. We can chat about ideas anytime.”

He takes the card without looking at it and pockets it. He turns to leave, pauses near the door, then glances back over his shoulder. “How about…,” he says slowly, like it physically pains him, “I’ll let you know if I’m interested?” Then he’s out the door before I can respond.

The bell jingles behind him, far too cheerfully, and I blink after him, still holding my pen, still half leaning on the counter.

Well, damn.

He’s fascinating. All carved-out tension and hidden edges, like he’s got a second skin under the one everyone sees. He’s the kind of man who makes you want to figure him out, even if it takes a freakin’ decade.

But also… please, let him be talking about being interested in tattoos and not me. Because if it was me, I’m already a little screwed. And yeah, of course he was talking about my ink work and booking me.

I exhale through my nose and push away from the counter, stretching my arms overhead. I’ve spent the day inking strangers and talking to one emotionally fortified rugby captain. The silence of my flat doesn’t sound appealing.

Tank’s gone, the shop’s clean, the playlist’s looping something vaguely lo-fi in the background. I pull off my gloves, grab my hoodie, and lock up behind me.

I need a pint and maybe a few friendly voices that don’t feel like decoding ancient runes. Off to the pub I go.