Page 31 of Full Tilt
“Yeah. We’re playing at home against Newcastle. They’re currently top of the league. If we lose, we’ll drop to fourth.”
Brent hums, more thoughtful now. “Maybe I’ll try and get to a match before the season’s out. Could be fun.”
I nod along, but then he adds, so casually it catches me off-guard, “Not sure I’ve got anyone to go with, though. Still settling in. New area and all that. Not exactly drowning in mates.” He says it without hesitation or apology. Just a simple truth dropped between us like it doesn’t cost him anything. It’s so atodds with how I live—carefully, strategically, always guarding something.
And for some reason, it makes my chest go tight.
It’s not pity. Not even empathy, exactly. It’s… recognition. Familiarity. And then comes the thought—quick, quiet, and dangerous:I could be his friend.
The idea roots itself before I can stamp it out, because I don’t need more friends. I’ve got Lachie, Jules… hell, even young Rafi, and the rest of the team. And my family. That’s enough.
But Brent doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for anything. And I’m still thinking about that moment in the alley. About the way his hand curled around my hip. The way he kissed me like he wasn’t afraid of all the things I didn’t say.
And he didn’t sell the story. Not even a whisper of it appeared online.
Yet, the voice in my head whispers again. That familiar, paranoid bastard. The one trained by years of mistrust and betrayal. It’s always there, even when I want it quiet.
But I swallow the doubt, clamp my jaw, and before I can stop myself, I hear the words leave my mouth. “I could… probably get you a ticket.”
Brent blinks, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I force a shrug, keeping it casual. “Got a few for home matches. Player comp list. Doesn’t cost me anything.”
His expression shifts. A flash of something—genuine pleasure, maybe. Warmth. “Thanks. I mean, yeah. I’d like that,” he says simply, like he means it.
I scratch the side of my jaw, not sure what to do with how easy that felt. “After the game, we’ll probably head to the pub again. The same one. You’re welcome to come, if you’re interested.”
There’s a beat of silence before he says, “As friends?” His voice is calm and light with zero pressure. My pulse kicks upanyway, because the answer in my head isNo,not just friends.I’d absolutely be up for his mouth on mine again. I’ve replayed it a hundred times. The weight of him. The way he tasted. The control he took without demanding it.
But that’s not safe. Not smart. So I clear my throat. “Yeah. Friends.”
Brent studies me for half a second longer before he nods. “Cool.”
That word again. Like it’s just that simple. Like he’s okay with the space I’ve just drawn between us. And the worst part? He probably is. Because he’s decent. Because he means it when he says he wants to go to a match. Because he tells the truth, even when it’s a little raw.
And me? I’m still wondering how long I can keep pretending I’m not already halfway to wanting more.
There’s a beat between us after I offer the ticket. A pause that could tip either way. Then Brent shifts in his seat, glancing over towards the compact fridge behind the reception counter. “You want a beer?”
I don’t even think about it. “Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out low and steady.
He gets up, walks over, and pulls two bottles from the fridge with an easy confidence that has no right being as distracting as it is. His movements are smooth and unhurried. He pops the caps on the edge of the counter—of course he does—and brings one over, handing it to me by the neck.
“Cheers,” he says, his voice soft but solid.
We clink bottles—just a light tap—and drink.
The beer’s cold, just bitter enough to cut through the lingering tension in my chest. I lean back in the chair and glance around the shop for the first time tonight, really taking it in. The walls are painted a matte charcoal, clean but warm, with framed prints of in-progress linework and bold colour pieces lining thespace like a gallery. The floor’s polished concrete but softened with worn rugs near each station. Small potted plants sit near the front, by the tall windows, their green softened by dusk spilling in through the blinds. The lighting’s warm, focused, like someone thought hard about how to make this place feel like more than just skin and ink.
“You planning to make any changes?” I ask, nodding towards the shop.
Brent leans back, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “Not at the moment. Tank had good taste. I’ve got a six-month option to buy the place. I’m considering it, but I want to see how things go first.”
Makes sense. Smart, even. I nod and take another sip. “You settling into Exeter okay?” I ask, kind of blowing my own mind right now as I’m being so damn social and inquisitive.
He hesitates—just a blink—then gives me a small smile. “Haven’t explored too much yet. Been to North Devon once. Took a day trip to Instow and Westward Ho!”
“Good spots.”
