Page 12 of Full Tilt
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.
