Page 8 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

We’re talking about moss.

Not metaphorically.

Literal moss.

Apparently, there’s a kind that glows faintly in caves up north, and Brent saw it once in a documentary and thought it was the coolest shit ever.

I don’t know how we got onto the subject—probably something about strange British nature or weird local facts—but somehow, it’s fifteen minutes later and I’m sitting in the corner of my team’s pub, trying not to smile like an idiot while a heavily tattooed American tells me about bioluminescence with the enthusiasm of a drunk history teacher.

And what’s weirder is I’m relaxed. My shoulders aren’t near my ears. My jaw’s not clenched. My guard’s still there—somewhere—but it’s been shoved to the back seat by this calm, warm presence who keeps looking at me like I’m worth talking to, not for what I do on the pitch but just… for me.

It’s dangerous.

He’s easy. Not in the casual sense—but in the way he fills silence without pushing, jokes without jabbing, listens without making it feel like I’m under a microscope. Witty, chilled, confident, but not in that brash, look-at-me way that makes my skin crawl.

It’s too easy.

I don’t know him. That’s rule one. No letting people in who haven’t earned it.

But Brent’s already sliding under my skin like he belongs there. And all it took was two meetings and a few too many text messages I looked forward to more than I do payday.

On top of that, he’s attractive. Like, really fucking hot.

It tends to be smaller guys who expect me to throw them around and call me daddy or some shit who clamour for my attention.

Brent’s almost as tall as I am. Broad in the shoulders, lean through the waist. His T-shirt clings to muscle in a way that’s completely unfair—but not in a poser kind of way.

Just… natural. Like he actually uses his body for something instead of living in the gym mirror.

When he took off his hoodie earlier, I nearly swallowed my bloody tongue.

He’s got a lip ring I’d kill to pull on and eyes that always seem amused by something I haven’t said.

And I’d like to.

The thought slams into me like a kick to the ribs.

Shit.

I clear my throat and stand abruptly, knocking the underside of the table with my knee. “I’ve got to head off.”

Brent blinks once. If he’s surprised or put out, he doesn’t show it. Just nods, still calm. “Yeah,” he says. “Long day. I should probably head home too. I’ve got tomorrow off, and getting in bed before eleven sounds amazing. Gonna sleep like a log.”

My brows pull together. “Wait—what time is it?”

He glances at his phone. “Quarter to eleven.”

I blink. “How the hell…?”

Time does not just disappear on me. Not with people I barely know. Not when I’m this… me. But somehow, it’s happened.

I shoot my teammates a nod on the way out. Rafi gives me a wave. Jules throws me a wink. Lachie—of course—bounces his bloody eyebrows like he’s already halfway through composing a filthy group chat message.

Internally, I flip him off. Externally, I keep walking. He probably thinks I’m getting lucky.

If only.

I’m so tempted. My body is halfway to leaning in, pinning Brent against a wall in some quiet alley, my brain already composing headlines I’ll regret. But then I remember—he’s going to be working on me soon. Needles. Intimate skin. Long hours.

Talk about awkward.

Outside, I brace for that uncomfortable goodbye. The lingering too-long moment. The hand hovering in mid-air. Instead, Brent grins, warm and easy, and holds out his palm for a shake. No weirdness. No expectation.

“Had a good night,” he says. “Shoot me a message when you want to chat more about the ink, if you want.” Then he turns and walks away down the street like he hasn’t just made my brain short-circuit and my chest ache in ways I don’t have the training to deal with.

I watch him go. And fuck—I’m not ready to say goodbye.

“Brent,” I call out, my voice low, uncertain, and not at all connected to the part of my brain that usually stops me from doing stupid shit.

He turns immediately, hands tucked into his pockets, smile soft around the edges, curiosity in his eyes. “Okay?”

Fuck.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “I was just….” Words vanish. Just gone. I have no idea what I’m doing. I am absolutely not about to say I’m not ready for the night to end. Jesus. “Nothing. Just… uhm… get home safe, yeah?”

His tongue dips out, brushing over that cursed lip ring, and I watch it happen in real time—helpless. He doesn’t look away. That gaze of his is clear and steady, assessing without pressure. Calm. Open. Meanwhile, my heart’s doing laps in my chest like it’s training for the bloody Olympics.

That lip ring. It’s going to be the death of me.

The silence stretches—too long. Too heavy. I can practically hear the sound of my own dignity crumbling. I pull myself together, or try to. My lips part, ready to mumble another awkward goodbye and retreat like the grown-arse man I’m not?—

“I can show you those sketches properly if you want,” he says suddenly. “Have a play with some of those changes you mentioned?”

I nod once, then again like my body’s been possessed by that damn car insurance dog. Because everything in me is screaming bad idea, walk away, rules, distance, control . But none of it’s stronger than the part of me that wants more.

His smile spreads, slow and brilliant. And fuck me dead, I am so screwed.

“You want to walk with me? Or your car…?”

“It’s safe in the car park around back,” I manage, voice slightly rough. “Macca, the owner, keeps it secure for players.”

He nods. “Come on, then.” He beckons, just a little gesture of his hand, and my feet?

Yeah, they move. Like he’s gravity. Like I’m the tide.

We fall into step side by side, the pub’s rowdy noise fading behind us.

The air is cool, mist soft against the back of my neck.

The path leads us past a few small shops—all closed up for the night, shutters down and glowing with the spill of distant streetlamps.

The florist’s window still has fairy lights blinking across a sign that says, “Back tomorrow, unless the plants kill me first.” A bakery sits next door, the scent of something faintly sweet still clinging to the pavement.

We pass an alley that cuts behind the row—narrow and dark, leading to the other side of the block where there’s an old mural half gone with age and probably a dozen foxes nesting in the bins.

The silence between us hums. Not awkward. Not exactly. It’s tense. Thick.

Every step is heavy with awareness. Of the space between our arms. The brush of his shoulder. The fact that I can hear his breathing shift when I glance at him from the corner of my eye.

I cast him a look—half a glance, just to gauge. He swallows. His throat bobs. And then he goes and does it again. He plays with that fucking lip ring, and I might actually self-destruct.

The alley catches my eye—the narrow one, shadowed between the newsagents and the mural-stained wall. It’s barely lit, tucked out of view from the main street, and before I know what the hell I’m doing, my hand is on Brent’s wrist.

He looks over, surprised—but not alarmed.

He’s still smiling, still following.

I tug him towards the mouth of the alley and press him back against the wall before I can talk myself out of it.

He gasps—not shocked, more breathless—and his eyes flare wide.

His back hits the brick, and he laughs under his breath, lips parted, gaze locked on me with something that looks a lot like yes.

“Well,” he says, voice low and playful, “hello, Captain.”

I freeze. Just for a second. Because fuck—I didn’t plan this. Didn’t think. I don’t do this. Dragging someone into the dark like some walking cliché.

Brent’s not just anyone, though. He’s a guy I have to work with on my tattoo, someone whose voice has been living in my head since I met him. Someone who makes me want things I’ve trained myself not to want.

And here I am, pressing him to a wall like I know what I’m doing.

My heart’s thudding loud enough that I can feel it in my throat. And now? Now I’m second-guessing everything. “Shit,” I murmur, dropping my head for half a second. “Sorry, I don’t usually drag… this isn’t?—”

He tilts his head, still smiling. “Camden.”

My eyes lift.

“Breathe.” That smile’s still there, softening everything. His hand curls lightly around my wrist. “You’re not dragging me. I came.”

His words tug something loose in my chest. Still, I can’t quite let the tension go. “I don’t do this,” I admit, voice gravelled and too honest. “I don’t… react like this. I don’t know you.”

“Not yet,” he says gently. “But you could.”

That lands harder than I expect. Not pushy. Not smug. Just… possible. Then he moves and spins us.

I let him, too stunned to stop it.

My back hits the wall with a muted thump, and he steps in, close enough that his breath skims my jaw. One of his arms braces beside my head. The other curls just slightly at my waist.

“Okay?” he murmurs.

I nod.

Once.

Twice.

My feet shift instinctively, and he nudges one of his in between mine until I lower slightly, just enough to meet him where he is. I swallow thickly, awareness ricocheting through me like static.

Then he kisses me.

No hesitation. No nerves. He just takes it—the thing I wanted but was too scared to reach for. And I’m gone. Completely, utterly gone.

The moment his lips touch mine, everything else drops away. The noise from the street. The faint scent of bread from the bakery. The thrum of blood in my ears.

Gone.

All that’s left is Brent—his warmth, his calm, and that wicked little lip ring that presses cold against my bottom lip before his tongue follows, hot and confident and so damn in control that my knees nearly buckle.

He kisses like he’s done this a thousand times and knows exactly how to undo me with one tilt of his head, one subtle shift of pressure. My dick punches against the inside of my dress pants, sudden and sharp, and I grunt—low and rough—into his mouth.