Page 5 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

Mud clings to everything—boots, kit, skin.

I’m also pretty sure it’s wedged between my arse cheeks.

The pitch has turned into a swamp disguised as a rugby field, all thanks to the steady drizzle that started before sunrise and hasn’t let up since.

We’re soaked through, our jerseys hanging heavy, while the scent of wet turf and sweat is thick in the air.

This is the part of the game where it gets feral. Ugly. Honest.

I crouch down, fingers splayed against the slick grass, my body taut with effort and tension.

My head’s supposed to be clear, locked in, dialled into this exact moment.

I’m the tighthead. This is my battle zone.

The scrum is one of the most brutal elements in rugby, and I’m at the heart of it.

My job is to anchor, to hold the line, to keep our pack driving forwards when the only thing between us and collapse is raw power and grit.

Instead, my brain’s tripping over something stupid.

A text.

Images.

Fucking artwork.

It’s been three days since I met Brent.

Three days since I walked into Black Salt Ink and tried not to flinch under the weight of someone actually looking at me—not the player, not the captain, not the tighthead, but me .

And now I’m standing in the middle of a close match against Bristol, and instead of focusing on keeping the scrum upright, I’m mentally flashing back to a pair of sketches he texted me late last night.

He thought I might like them. Said he was just “noodling around,” wanted to see if anything sparked.

They’re good, and I’ve been staring at them ever since. I haven’t even responded, because my heart did this stupid, traitorous stutter when I realised he’d texted.

I’m thirty-one years old, have held my own against world-class locks, and here I am, rattled by a bloody tattoo artist with a lip ring and a lopsided grin.

“Crawford!” Jules barks from the back row, yanking me back to the moment.

Right. Game. Rain. Mud. Bristol.

I shake my head, suck in a breath, and dig in.

“Bind!” the ref calls.

I reach out, lock on. Fingers grip wet fabric like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

“Set!”

We crash.

Bodies slam together with the force of a head-on collision.

My shoulder screams, but I hold. My boots slide half an inch in the mud, but I reset, dig deeper.

The opposition’s loosehead is burly and scrappy, driving in at a brutal angle, trying to catch me high.

I shift my weight, adjust my bind, and shove right back.

The pitch squelches beneath us, our footing unstable. Rain slicks down my back, mixing with sweat. The grind of the scrum is pure chaos—grunting, swearing, eight bodies locked in a mechanical hell—and still, I hold. Anchor. Absorb. Control.

This is mine.

We edge forwards. Slow, inch by inch, clawing ground with stubborn weight and willpower. Bristol resists, but we’ve got the better shape. Jules roars behind me, driving the second row, and I feel Lachie lock in tighter at the hook. My spine burns with the pressure, but we’re winning the push.

Yes.

The ref’s whistle blasts, sharp and clear. Penalty. Our ball.

I drop out of the bind, staggering upright, mud streaked down my arms, thighs, caked under my nails. My lungs drag in damp air, and I can’t tell if my heart’s hammering from the adrenaline or the ghost of those sketches still rattling around in my skull.

Lachie claps a heavy hand on my back. “Nice shove, Cap. Nearly drove the poor bastard into next week.”

I nod, still catching my breath. “Wet pitch helped.”

“Sure it wasn’t tattoo dreams spurring you on?”

I glare at him, and he smirks. Bastard knows me too well. Add in that I’m a dick for even showing them to him when my head’s been a mess since meeting Brent.

“You gonna text him back?” he adds, quieter now as we jog to reset. “Or just keep brooding like a half-drowned crow?”

I grunt. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah. That’ll be new.”

I shove him lightly, and he stumbles just enough to make it worth it.

Rain keeps falling, steady as ever. The crowd’s a blur beyond the pitch, a wall of noise and waterproofs. We’re away at Bristol, which means less home love, more jeers, but it’s close enough not to feel hostile. Devon fans still made the drive.

We reset the play, and I shake out my arms and stretch my neck, trying to shove everything else aside. Brent’s sketches. His easy tone. That half-smile. The way he looked at me like I was worth his full attention, not just a job.

It’s ridiculous. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like this match. Like holding third place on the table. Like proving to myself, and to the team, that we’ve still got it with six games left.

And still… I think of the text again.

Let me know if anything in these speaks to you. No pressure. Just ideas.

I haven’t replied.

Because I’m not sure which part of that didn’t speak to me.

We’re five metres out from Bristol’s line now. The ball’s ours, and the tempo’s picking up. The lads are working like a machine—grinding forwards in brutal little surges, the kind of hard graft rugby that wins games, not headlines.

The ball snaps out from the back of the ruck and we recycle fast—clean hands, good momentum. Rafi blazes up the wing like he’s jet-propelled, and for a heartbeat, it looks like he might get through.

Then the tackle comes—high, legal, but savage—and the ball pops loose.

Instinct kicks in, and I charge. It’s reflex, pure and simple. I get there first, throwing myself into the mess to secure the ball. A boot clips my thigh as I go low, and someone’s shoulder lands hard into my ribs on the way down.

I hear the crunch.

Not bone— thank God —but something pulls tight in my side, sharp and hot like a wire yanked too far. I land awkwardly, skidding a few feet in the mud, the ball tucked to my chest.

The ref’s whistle pierces the air—our penalty—and the guys cheer.

But I’m still down. Only for a second. Just one.

I roll to my knees, jaw clenched as I breathe through the white spike of pain in my side. Bones aren’t broken, the injury’s not deep, but my ribs burn like hellfire, and every inhale has me gritting my teeth.

Lachie’s beside me in a flash. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fucking fine,” I growl, pushing to my feet.

I wobble, just a little, then plant my boots and square my shoulders.

My left side screams, but I shut it out.

There’s no time for this. No space for injury.

Not now. Not while we’re pushing this close, not when the lads are looking at me like I’m still unshakable.

No one needs to know the captain’s running on stubbornness and spite.

I suck in a breath through my nose, adjust my stance, and fall back into formation for the next phase.

Lachie gives me a sidelong glance. “You’re limping.”

“Barely.”

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about pig-headed bastards, but he knows better than to push it now.

The ref signals. The ball’s back in. And I’m back at it—pain or no.

Rain keeps falling. Mud sucks at my boots. Every contact jolts something raw under my ribs, but I grind through it. It’s not about pride—it’s about responsibility. This team’s mine. I don’t sit out unless something’s hanging off.

Play carries on in a blur of bodies and breath, and I hold fast. Still standing. Still here. And no matter what’s throbbing under my ribs, nothing is taking me out of this match.

The coach hums beneath us as it rumbles down the wet motorway towards Exeter, the windows fogged with the ghosts of forty soaked bodies. The game’s behind us now—a close one, too close for comfort, but a win’s a win. We needed that.

The lads are wrecked. A couple of them are nodding off already, headphones in, legs sprawled in the aisle like wreckage. Rafi’s curled into his hoodie at the back, and Lachie’s got his head tipped against the window, eyes half-shut, lips moving around whatever song he’s mumbling.

It’s mostly quiet. Just the occasional murmur or snore, the soft percussion of rain on glass.

“Cap,” Jules says from a few seats up, “couple of us might grab a pint when we’re back. You coming?”

I should say no. My ribs are killing me, and all I want is a hot shower and a cold pack. But we’re closing in on the end of the season. The table’s tight. The mood’s tight. And whether I like it or not, I’m not just the tighthead—I’m the glue. I don’t have the luxury of silence.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll come.”

A few voices echo their approval, and then it’s quiet again.

I shift in my seat, trying to stretch without grimacing, and finally dig my phone out of my bag. I shouldn’t, but I do.

The screen lights up, and the unanswered text from Brent stares back at me.

He sent it last night, at around ten. Two images—black and grey mock-ups.

Crisp, clean, but there’s depth there too.

Layers. They’re not exactly what I want, but they’re close.

Impressively so since I gave him shit-all information to go off.

His design is close enough to make my fingers twitch with the need to stroke my fingers over them, to talk about them.

I’ve looked at them a dozen times already, but it’s time to pull my head out of my arse and finally reply.

Me: These are solid. Close to what I had in mind.

I hit Send, thumb hovering just a second longer than necessary, then tuck the phone into my lap like it might bite me.

It buzzes back immediately.

Brent: Didn’t I just see you on the pitch?

Brent: What, were you snuggling your phone between tackles?

I almost choke. The corners of my mouth twitch, and I press a knuckle to my lips to hide the smile trying to sneak through.

Another buzz.

Brent: Also—finally. Thought maybe you ghosted me because my seagull looked like it was doing a tax return.

I stare at the screen.

How the hell is he like this already?

Cheeky, relaxed, no edge of expectation—but sharp enough to cut through the post-match fog still hanging over me. He doesn’t come on too strong. Just hits the exact level of… him.

Me: I was busy wrestling a pack of blokes in a rainstorm.

Brent: And still managed to find time for me. I’m touched.

Me: Barely.

Brent: It’s alright. I thrive on minimal emotional engagement. Oldest sibling survival instinct.

The mood shifts just enough to make me blink, and then his next message lands.

Brent: Seriously though—hell of a match. I’m no expert, but it looked like a war zone. You alright?

I pause, fingers hovering again. My first instinct is to dodge. Joke. Minimise. That’s usually the rule with people outside the team—especially when it comes to injuries.

But this doesn’t feel like someone fishing for gossip. There’s no “hope you’re okay ” undertone. Just genuine concern.

Still, it pays to be careful.

Me: Ribs are bruised. Nothing major.

Brent: Glad to hear it. I was ready to design you a commemorative “I survived the scrum” tattoo.

Brent: Limited edition.

Me: I’ll pass, thanks.

Brent: You say that now, but wait till I add glitter shading.

I snort quietly.

Me: I don’t do glitter.

Brent: Blasphemy.

A small beat follows until another text appears.

Brent: So you’re the captain, right? No pressure or anything.

Me: You googled me?

Brent: Nope. Tank mentioned it. Also, it’s on the team website. Along with your scariest press photo. You look like you’re considering murder.

Me: It was a media day. We’re all thinking about murder.

Brent: Fair.

Brent: I was raised in a hockey house—ice hockey, not the kind where people run around on fields with sticks and curse a lot. So I don’t know all the rules, but the vibe? I get it.

I raise an eyebrow.

Me: Ice hockey?

Brent: Yes. On skates. Fast. Angry. People in cages.

Me: I thought hockey was just that PE lesson where everyone loses a tooth.

I grin as I hit Send, completely full of shit.

In the Love the Game group chat I’m in with a bunch of other queer athletes—guys I met last year during a photoshoot for Queervolution magazine—this line would’ve caused chaos. At least two of them play ice hockey professionally and are aggressively proud of their mouth guards.

I don’t usually do media. I keep my head down, let the sport do the talking.

But when Queervolution approached me for a piece on openly queer male athletes, something in me said yes.

Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was just about wanting to make a stand, however quietly.

There still aren’t many of us out in rugby.

Fewer still who talk about it. And someone’s got to.

The photoshoot itself was chaos—with some thinking shirts were optional while the energy was off the charts—but that night, a few of us started a group chat to coordinate dinner.

It’s still going, all this time later. Memes, questions, venting, check-ins.

Half the time, it’s nonsense. The other half, it’s a lifeline.

I haven’t mentioned Brent in the chat, obviously. Plus, they’re a pack of bloody gossips, and the second I drop a name, I’ll be fielding questions, innuendo, and at least three memes involving rainbows and rugby balls.

Better to keep it to myself. But right now, the idea of telling them I’m texting a tattoo artist who makes me laugh, who looked at me like I was worth seeing… yeah, they’d definitely have something to say.

Brent: Not totally wrong.

Me: How the hell is that a family sport?

Brent: Oh, it’s not. It’s a cult. My little brother plays, and I’m gonna tell him a professional rugby player thinks his “sport” is PE with extra bruises.

I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. The pain in my side tugs when I do, but it’s worth it.

Brent: Alright, gotta run—client coming in soon. Let me know if you want me to tweak anything, or if you want more options. No pressure. Just ideas. Talk soon, Captain.

I stare at the last message a second longer than I need to.

It’s early evening. Saturday. The bus is still rumbling through drizzle and quiet laughter. I should be thinking about the pint I promised the lads. Instead, I’m wondering what Brent’s client looks like.

I’m also wondering what Brent looks like when he’s relaxed, at home, sketching. And—stupidly, quietly—I’m wondering if he’s even queer.

I think I got a vibe, but I’ve been wrong before. Not that it matters.

Right?