Page 9 of Full Tilt
Well, damn.
He’s fascinating. All carved-out tension and hidden edges, like he’s got a second skin under the one everyone sees. He’s the kind of man who makes you want to figure him out, even if it takes a freakin’ decade.
But also… please, let him be talking about being interested in tattoos and not me. Because if itwasme, I’m already a little screwed. And yeah, of course he was talking about my ink work and booking me.
I exhale through my nose and push away from the counter, stretching my arms overhead. I’ve spent the day inking strangers and talking to one emotionally fortified rugby captain. The silence of my flat doesn’t sound appealing.
Tank’s gone, the shop’s clean, the playlist’s looping something vaguely lo-fi in the background. I pull off my gloves, grab my hoodie, and lock up behind me.
I need a pint and maybe a few friendly voices that don’t feel like decoding ancient runes. Off to the pub I go.
3
Camden
Mud clings to everything—boots,kit, skin. I’m also pretty sure it’s wedged between my arse cheeks. The pitch has turned into a swamp disguised as a rugby field, all thanks to the steady drizzle that started before sunrise and hasn’t let up since. We’re soaked through, our jerseys hanging heavy, while the scent of wet turf and sweat is thick in the air. This is the part of the game where it gets feral. Ugly. Honest.
I crouch down, fingers splayed against the slick grass, my body taut with effort and tension. My head’s supposed to be clear, locked in, dialled into this exact moment. I’m the tighthead. This is my battle zone. The scrum is one of the most brutal elements in rugby, and I’m at the heart of it. My job is to anchor, to hold the line, to keep our pack driving forwards when the only thing between us and collapse is raw power and grit.
Instead, my brain’s tripping over something stupid.
A text.
Images.
Fucking artwork.
It’s been three days since I met Brent.
Three days since I walked into Black Salt Ink and tried not to flinch under the weight of someone actually looking at me—notthe player, not the captain, not the tighthead, butme. And now I’m standing in the middle of a close match against Bristol, and instead of focusing on keeping the scrum upright, I’m mentally flashing back to a pair of sketches he texted me late last night.
He thought I might like them. Said he was just “noodling around,” wanted to see if anything sparked.
They’re good, and I’ve been staring at them ever since. I haven’t even responded, because my heart did this stupid, traitorous stutter when I realised he’d texted.
I’m thirty-one years old, have held my own against world-class locks, and here I am, rattled by a bloody tattoo artist with a lip ring and a lopsided grin.
“Crawford!” Jules barks from the back row, yanking me back to the moment.
Right. Game. Rain. Mud. Bristol.
I shake my head, suck in a breath, and dig in.
“Bind!” the ref calls.
I reach out, lock on. Fingers grip wet fabric like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
“Set!”
We crash.
Bodies slam together with the force of a head-on collision. My shoulder screams, but I hold. My boots slide half an inch in the mud, but I reset, dig deeper. The opposition’s loosehead is burly and scrappy, driving in at a brutal angle, trying to catch me high. I shift my weight, adjust my bind, and shove right back.
The pitch squelches beneath us, our footing unstable. Rain slicks down my back, mixing with sweat. The grind of the scrum is pure chaos—grunting, swearing, eight bodies locked in a mechanical hell—and still, I hold. Anchor. Absorb. Control.
This is mine.
We edge forwards. Slow, inch by inch, clawing ground with stubborn weight and willpower. Bristol resists, but we’ve got thebetter shape. Jules roars behind me, driving the second row, and I feel Lachie lock in tighter at the hook. My spine burns with the pressure, but we’re winning the push.
