Page 101 of Full Tilt
And just like that, the nerves settle into something more solid. I tuck the phone away, stand, and nod towards the tunnel.Just before we leave, my phone buzzes in my boot bag one last time.
Jay:
We’re finalizing the panel for Thursday. You in? Would love your voice on it.
I chew the inside of my cheek. It’s not the time to decide. But maybe, just maybe, this trip’s about more than rugby. Maybe it’s about showing up—in more ways than one.
I’ll have a think and let him know after the game. I head on out with my team.
Outside, the crowd hums with energy. It’s not a packed house, but the vibe is good—lots of families, a decent local turnout, banners for both sides. The sun’s high, the heat brutal. The American flag flaps lazily on the sideline.
We jog out to warm-ups, and I glance towards the stands, spotting Brent instantly. Of course I do.
He’s standing beside his parents, sunglasses low on his nose, a smirk on his lips. He clocks me and gives a casual little wave. His dad does too. Rachel nudges him, whispering something, and Brent blushes.
I want to die and also kiss him stupid.
Focus,I tell myself again.
But even as we run drills and prep for the match, I keep checking that row. And every time I do, he’s watching. Even when I fumble a catch during warm-up. Even when my water bottle spills down my front. Even when I nearly trip on the sideline marker.
He doesn’t laugh. Not really. But I feel the grin from here.
Kick-off approaches. The ref checks in. Line-ups are confirmed.
I adjust my gum shield, nod to the lads, and take my place on the field. Brent’s out there watching. It’s time to give him something worth seeing.
The Florida heatisn’t exactly subtle.
By the time the second half kicks off, I’m already half melted inside my boots, and the back of my neck feels like it’s baking under the afternoon sun. Still—there’s energy in the air. A kind of buzz that’s different from a regular league match. It’s not do-or-die like the Premiership fixtures back home, but the stakes are still there.
This tour’s about outreach. Visibility. Building bridges between the UK rugby scene and the slowly growing sport on American soil. Which means we’re not just here to win. We’re here to impress.
And impressing is a lot harder to do when your boyfriend’s parents are watching you from the shaded stands and your entire lower back is soaked in sweat.
Brilliant.
The Jacksonville team’s solid—rough around the edges, maybe not as tight on formation, but quick and agile. They’re hungry in that way teams with something to prove always are. They’re giving us a proper game, and I respect the hell out of them for that.
Well—most of them.
There’s one player in particular—a back, I think, maybe a centre—who keeps turning his charm up to eleven every time we cross paths. Dark hair, white gumshield, a smile that’s probably broken a thousand hearts.
When we shook hands at the pre-match dinner last night, he’d introduced himself as Pen, thrown me a wink, and said something about liking “a man who leads from the front.” I thought he was joking.
He’s not.
Every time we get into a scrum, or pass within arm’s reach, or even lock eyes from across the pitch, he shoots me this grin. Like we’re sharing some private joke. Like we’ve already got history.
It’s… disarming.
Not because I’m interested—because I’m very much not—but because it’s the kind of attention I’m used to getting from the press or fans. Not from someone in boots and headgear who’s meant to be focusing on the bloody game.
At one point, he actually winks at me mid-tackle.
A fuckingwink.
I blink at him, stunned enough to hesitate half a beat before rejoining the ruck. “Focus,” I mutter under my breath, trying to drown out the weird tension building at the base of my skull. I’m a professional. I have a job to do.
