Page 17 of Full Tilt
He snorts. “Can’t stop him.”
“I like him,” I say. “He’s a menace. But the good kind.”
Camden grunts. That might be agreement.
I smile, unbothered. I’m not here to crack him open or dig too deep. But I am here. And hedidlead me here. That has to mean something.
The quiet stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable—not for me anyway. He’s got that rare kind of presence, the kind that doesn’t need to fill every silence with words. Still, I need to steer us towards safer ground.
“So,” I say, “the sketches… you said they were close to what you had in mind. Want to talk specifics?”
He nods slowly. “The second one—more of that. Cleaner lines. Bit more structure through the elbow.”
My eyebrows lift, impressed. “You know exactly what you’re after.”
“Had time to think it through.”
“That helps.” I pause, then tilt my head. “And you’ve got a good eye. Most people don’t catch structural flow through the joints unless they’ve done a few themselves or stared at too many bad tattoos.”
His mouth quirks—barely, but it’s there. “I’ve seen enough to know what I don’t want.”
“That’s half the battle.”
He nods again, sips his beer, and I take the opportunity to just watch him.
His beard is neatly trimmed, not a speck out of place, and he’s changed out of his kit—clean and put together in a way that still somehow feels effortless. There’s something about the way he sits, like he’salwaysready to move—solid, firm, coiled quiet. His knuckles are rough, bruised. There’s a tension in his shoulders that never really leaves. And then there’s thatvoice—low, gravelly, threaded with that deep West Midlands drawl that Idefinitelyshouldn’t be this into.
“So, you’re from the Midlands?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just outside Wolverhampton.”
“I still haven’t made it up that way,” I admit, leaning back. “London, Brighton, bits of Devon now—but I’ve yet to venture further north. One day.”
He huffs, not quite a laugh. “Depends what you’re after. If you like post-industrial towns with a half-decent curry and endless rain, it’s a dream.”
I grin. “Sounds like home, honestly. Just swap rain for snow and add one loud hockey rink.”
That gets a flicker of something—amusement, maybe. Recognition. It’s always subtle with him, but it’s there if you’re watching.
The conversation winds on in gentle turns, nothing too deep, but enough to give me flickers—glimpses—of the man behind the press photos and the guarded looks. Camden’s still clipped with his words, still watching me like he’s measuring out trust by the ounce, but there’s warmth under the surface. A dry wit that slips out in tiny, unexpected sparks.
We talk about the differences between Devon and the Midlands, about his mum’s obsession with feeding people, and about how his sister once threatened to break his nose for stealing the last custard tart at Christmas. He tells me all of this in the same deadpan tone, like it’s barely worth sharing, andyet each piece feels like a little stone passed across the table. Carefully placed. Quietly offered.
I’m just about to tell him about the time I accidentally tattooed a mirrored symbol on a guy’s ribs—his fault for holding the reference sheet upside down—when a pair of voices stumble into our quiet space.
“Camden! Mate, hell of a game!”
We both turn as two guys, who are probably in their mid-twenties with pints in hand and clearly a few deep, wobble over to our table. One’s got a club scarf half hanging off his neck; the other’s already half spilling his beer.
Camden shifts, subtly but instantly. His shoulders stiffen just enough for me to notice. His pint stays on the table, untouched, but his posture changes. Alert. Ready.
He gives them a small nod, smile tight. “Cheers.”
“Thought you were gonna break that guy’s ribs in the first scrum,” the scarf guy says with a laugh, clearly unaware of the tension on Camden’s shoulders.
Camden’s smile doesn’t move. “No need. Ref handled it.”
They linger for a moment too long, and I feel something twist low in my stomach. Not fear, not exactly—but something protective, a flicker of frustration on his behalf. This isn’t hostile. But it’s intrusive. Like watching someone push past a boundary they can’t see.
