Page 30 of Full Tilt
Brent perks up. “Yeah?”
I nod but don’t elaborate. I don’t share all my business on a whim—not even with someone whose sketches feel like they belong under my skin.
Still, Brent doesn’t push. He just rolls with the shift in conversation like it’s nothing. “You probably saw more professional action in two games than I’ve seen in my entire life. I left the States long before my brother was at college.”
I glance at him—at the way his T-shirt clings to the muscles across his shoulders, the way his forearms flex when he picks up the pencil again, easy and unselfconscious. He looks like someone who belongs on a pitch, or even a rink. Strong. Solid. Fit in a way that isn’t about show. Just quiet, functional power.
And I really shouldn’t be thinking that. Let alone saying it. So I just raise a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His mouth tilts into a half-smile. “Guess the ink’s good camouflage.”
I look away before I let myself stare longer than I already have. The moment stretches, comfortable now. Something in me relaxes further—not fully, not foolishly—but just enough to remember what it feels like to sit with someone and talk. Without worrying what’s being dissected beneath the surface.
He flips another page and jots something down. “I’ve got a full backpiece scheduled to finish on Wednesday,” he says. “Guy’s a masochist—four hours in and swears he’s fine while I’m the one needing a break. And then a couple of touch-ups Thursday.”
“Sounds brutal.”
“You’d be surprised how much people love their pain.”
I glance down at the design again. “And after Thursday?”
“Open slate.”
“Lucky you.”
He grins. “Temporarily. What about you?”
“Game on Sunday. At home. Tough side.”
His expression shifts—more serious, like he’s mentally circling the date. “How you feeling about it?”
“We’re third in the table. We need the win to stay in it. So… it’s one of those games.”
“Pressure?”
“Always.”
He nods slowly. He doesn’t offer advice. Doesn’t say something trite likeYou’ve got this. Instead, he just sits with it and holds it like it’s real. Somehow, that lands deeper than any encouragement could.
Brent scratches something into the margin of the sketch—just a note, maybe a measurement—and leans back in his chair.He stretches his arms behind his head, T-shirt pulling just slightly across his chest, revealing the ink along his biceps. It’s unfair, really, how casually good he looks while talking about lines and elbow flow like it’s nothing.
“You know,” he says, voice easy, “I really don’t know that much about rugby.”
I glance up from the design. “Yeah?”
He shrugs. “Caught the odd match at the pub. I get the basics—big blokes, lots of shouting, a ball that bounces like it’s got trauma. But the rest? Bit of a mystery.”
A low laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Not far off.”
Brent grins like he’s proud of himself, then gestures towards me. “You guys look terrifying, though. Watching a scrum’s like watching a bear pit with rules.”
“Not that many rules.”
“That explains a lot.”
I shake my head, but there’s something about his tone—half curious, half teasing—that puts me at ease. Or maybe I just want to stay here longer, in this quiet pocket of normal. “It’s the Gallagher Premiership,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Twelve clubs. Top four at the end of the season go through to play-offs. We’re third right now, so every match matters.”
“Right.” He nods, considering that. “And Sunday’s kind of a big deal, then?”
