Page 29 of Full Tilt
So yeah, it’s messed me up. And that guilt is what leads me here. Not quite on my knees asking for forgiveness, but… close. Close enough that the words come out stiff and heavy in Brent’s studio while he stands watching me like he’s still bracing for a slow-motion car crash.
“I’m sorry,” I say after my initial apology about disappearing on him. “About the other night. I handled it wrong.”
His eyes widen and his cheeks flame red.
“Not about… uhm… I mean about not responding,” I’m quick to say. “I came straight from training. Didn’t want to leave it longer.”
His expression shifts just slightly. It’s still neutral, still holding back, but there’s something softer behind his eyes, like he sees it—the effort, the reach.
He doesn’t know I’ve been checking for a betrayal. He won’t know. That part stays mine.
As does the other part—the one that can’t stop thinking about his hands on me. About the way he took control of the kiss, the weight of his body, the lip ring dragging heat along my skin. Then the sound of his shuddering breaths when he panted my name in the recording.
I’m not here for that.I tell myself that, again and again.
I’m here because he’s talented. His work’s excellent. The designs are on point. I want the sleeve. The rest… is background noise I plan to ignore.
Mostly.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
Brent turns towards the workbench, flips open his sketchbook, and gently lays out the updated sleeve design.
And damn. It’s good.
The structure’s tighter—flowing up from the wrist and wrapping around the elbow in a way that feels intentional. Like it’s always belonged on my skin. The negative space balances the bold blackwork perfectly, and the elements we’d discussed—sharp lines with symbolic symmetry—are woven in with more depth than I’d imagined.
“You’ve been busy,” I murmur, leaning in to study the shading on the forearm section.
He shrugs casually. “Just fine-tuning. You already gave me a solid foundation to build on.”
I glance up at him briefly. “It’s really bloody good.”
That earns a small smile—nothing smug, just… warm. He pulls a stool over, slides onto it with easy confidence. “So… you still feeling the clean lines through the upper shoulder, or want to soften it a bit?”
I swallow in relief that he’s brushing past my awkward apology and isn’t attempting to apologise again in the flesh, instead jumping to the artwork. “Stick with the clean. I don’t want it to fade into abstract. Feels more like me this way.”
He nods and makes a few notes. “You healed up from that hit in the Bristol match?”
“Mostly.” I shift in the chair, stretching out my side. “I don’t bounce back the way I used to.”
“Ah, yes.” He leans on the table with one elbow, mock-grave. “The tragedy of ageing. Sneaky shit that age thing, huh.”
I grunt out a laugh. “Watch it. I’ve still got a few good years left.” My shoulders lose some of their tension.
“That’s the spirit.” He grins. “To be fair, I get it. I twisted my knee last year crouched under a table to plug in a charger and limped for three days. I’ve accepted that I’m built for sketching and snack runs, not combat.”
“Ever played anything properly?”
He tilts his head. “You mean beyond failed attempts at gym class? Nah. But my little brother plays ice hockey. I think I told you before. He thinks he’s made of titanium.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself. “At college?”
“Yeah. Just about to finish his second year. He’s fast as hell, chirpy as shit. Scored some ridiculous goal the other week and sent me a clip like he was auditioning for the NHL.”
“I watched a couple of games while I was in the States,” I admit, keeping it casual. “Weirdly addictive. Met a few players out there too—tough bastards.”
