Page 11 of Full Tilt
“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 humsbeneath us as it rumbles down the wet motorway towards Exeter, the windows fogged with the ghostsof 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?
