Page 14 of Full Tilt
We’re heading to the pub tonight—same one we’ve been to a few times now. It’s an easy walk, with good beer, decent fries, and a cosy sort of vibe that makes it feel like more than a stop between work and home. Flick’s coming, and so are Carrie, who came in to do a few piercings, and Christy, the receptionist. The usual suspects.
We walk together, our chitchat light and pleasant as the four of us head down the narrow pavements. The night’s got that late-spring nip in the air—sharp enough to bite at your fingertips but not freeze you outright. It’s dark and cloudy, drizzle hanging in the air like a threat, but for now, it’s just enough to dampen my hair and cool my skin.
By the time we get to the pub, the sound hits first.
It’s louder than usual. Laughter spills out onto the street, conversations overlapping, and bodies are packed tighter inside.It must be post-match buzz. Makes sense since the training grounds aren’t too far from here.
We step into the warmth, and the heat and noise hit me all at once. It’s rowdy in the best way—shoulder to shoulder, elbows at the bar, friends crowded into booths with pints and stories spilling over the tables.
I smile without thinking. Yeah. This? This I like.
At the bar, I lean my forearms against the wood while Christy and Carrie start debating some new piercing trend they saw on Instagram. I half listen while ordering my pint, but my gaze starts drifting almost immediately.
And then I see him, Camden, tucked into a booth towards the back. It’s dimly lit, but he’s still unmissable. He’s surrounded by a handful of guys—his teammates. I don’t need a briefing to figure that out. Their energy, their size, the bruises on a few of their faces. Rugby men, through and through.
But I barely see them.
Because he’s looking at me. Eyes locked, beard hiding half his expression, but not enough to miss the fact that he’s watching me like he wasn’t expecting me… but isn’t all that mad about it either. And maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s nothing. But he doesn’t look away, and neither do I.
My stomach does this strange little flip—tight, warm, not unlike the rush of dropping a stencil perfectly onto someone’s shoulder. It’s a precise kind of thrill. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. And in my defence, he’s the one holding my gaze.
I smile, subtle but definite. And when a hesitant, almost reluctant smile fires back, low and quick like a twitch he didn’t mean to let happen, I feel it like a punch to the chest. The bartender hands me my pint, and I barely remember to thank him before turning, casting a quick glance towards Flick. I jerk my chin in Camden’s direction, and Flick just lifts one brow, likeAre you seriously doing this?
Yeah. I’m seriously doing this. Ill-advised? Possibly. But I swear, those text exchanges were leaning just a little flirty. And I’m not walking away from here tonight without saying hello.
I weave through the packed pub with my pint cradled carefully, dodging elbows and half-shouted jokes. My pulse thuds in my throat with every step I take towards Camden, still perched in that booth like a storm cloud with arms.
As I approach, he stands, and I swallow hard.
Fuck, I knew he was big—saw it in the flesh just three days ago—but seeing him like this—upright, broad, filling the space around him like it’s his by default—does something to my insides that should absolutely not be happening in public. He’s all shoulders and solid muscle, thighs like tree trunks, beard sharp enough to file metal on. And his presence? It’s magnetic. Intense.
And fuck if he doesn’t tick every damn box I didn’t realise I still had.
We’re barely two feet apart in the crush of bodies. Maybe less. This place wasn’t made for tall blokes with commanding stares and nervous artists trying not to blush.
“Hey,” I say, managing a smile that doesn’t feel completely wrecked by nerves. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Same,” he says, voice low, rough. His gaze flicks down, then up again, like he’s checking I’m real.
I hold out my hand, and he takes it—calloused palm, firm grip, but not trying to crush me. We’re practically on each other thanks to the wall of humans pressing in around us, and I have to tilt my head just a little to meet his eyes. It’s… a lot. In a good way. In averygood way.
“Good game,” I say quietly. “Slippery as hell, but you held your own.”
He nods, but his mouth tightens ever so slightly.
Noted.Right—rugby is off-limits.
I switch gears without missing a beat. “So”—I lean in, dropping my voice just enough—“you ever tattoo a seventy-nine-year-old woman with a pet iguana named Nigel?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Can’t say I have.”
“Well,” I say, grinning, “then you haven’t lived.”
He blinks at me, expression flat.
“For real,” I say. “This woman—Edna—walks in last year while I was guesting at a shop in Manchester. Wants a tattoo of Nigel. She pulls out a photo of this majestic bastard in a little Santa hat, says, ‘He hates it, but he looks adorable.’ I swear on my life, she said adorable like she’d kill anyone who disagreed.”
Camden releases a low chuckle—genuine, warm, unguarded—and Christ, it hits me like a jolt. I feel it in my spine. That sound should be bottled and sold for therapy.
