Page 13 of Full Tilt
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 forQueervolutionmagazine—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 whenQueervolutionapproached 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?
4
Brent
“Keep it clean,keep it dry. Unscented moisturiser after two days. No picking. No swimming, no hot tubs, and no saunas, even if someone tries to seduce you into one. Trust me.”
The guy, who’s mid-twenties, maybe, and fresh off a dare with his mates, laughs and nods as I tape down the wrap over his new forearm piece. “Got it. No sexy saunas.”
“None. I’m serious,” I say, walking him to the front and handing him a care sheet. “You wouldn’t believe what people admit to once their tattoo gets infected.”
He thanks me again and heads out, still smiling, and I finally let myself exhale. It was an easy session—simple walk-in, clean lines, no complications. The kind of client I like: cheerful, chill, not trying to convince me to ink their ex’s name or a misspelled quote they found online.
It’s been interesting, stepping into someone else’s shop mid-flow. Tank’s client list is long and loyal, but everyone’s been welcoming so far. No drama. Just a few raised eyebrows, some light interrogation, the usual.
The trickiest one? Camden. Though “tricky” doesn’t really feel like the right word. Careful, maybe. Guarded. And hell, whowouldn’t be, living in the UK with those gossip-rag tabloids and photographers who lurk in trash cans?
He’s got every reason to keep his walls up.
Doesn’t stop me thinking about him.
Again.
I don’t usually have the TV on when I’m working—it’s distracting, and most of the time, I’d rather vibe out to music—but today I made an exception. I’d asked Flick—another tattooist here—and my client if they minded, and neither did. Flick gave me a long look, though. One of those eyebrow-raised,I know what you’re doing, but I won’t say itlooks.
That’s on him. He’s not wrong. But still.
Camden intrigues me.
There’s something beneath that tough exterior—beneath the beard and that slablike chest and the way he only seems to smile like it costs him money—that makes me want to look. Not in a nosey, tabloid way. Just… look.
