The Rusty Anchor Pub was a dive in the best sense of the word—grimy, loud, and reeking of stale beer and misplaced ambition. It was Jamie’s kind of place, the sort of hole where a lad could sink a few pints, charm a bird or two, and not worry about the state of his scuffed trainers. Tonight, though, Jamie wasn’t hunting for a quick shag behind the bins. He was buzzing from the lager and the high of a rugby win, his ego inflated like a bloody hot air balloon. With his low-slung jeans riding just right, the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers peeking out like a neon sign screaming “look here, mate,” he strutted into the gents’ room, all swagger and no shame.
The dimly lit space was a grim little corner of the pub, tiles cracked and yellowed, the air thick with the sharp tang of piss and cheap air freshener. Jamie planted himself at the middle urinal of the three, unzipping with a flourish, his stance wide and cocky, like he owned the bloody place. He was mid-stream, humming some half-remembered tune, when the door creaked open behind him. Heavy boots scuffed against the floor, and a familiar grunt cut through the quiet.
“Well, fuck me, if it ain’t Coach Greg,” Jamie drawled without turning, a smirk tugging at his lips. He knew that gruff huff anywhere—his rugby coach, a bear of a man with a face like a slapped arse and hands that could crush a pint glass. Greg stepped up to the urinal on Jamie’s right, his broad frame filling the space, the air shifting with a weight Jamie couldn’t quite name.
“Watch your mouth, lad,” Greg rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, like he’d gargled whiskey and grit for breakfast. “Ain’t no place for your cheek in here.”
Jamie chuckled, shaking off with a deliberate slowness, making damn sure his waistband stayed on display as he zipped up. He caught Greg’s eyes flicker down—just for a split second, mind, but it was enough. The old bastard wasn’t subtle, and Jamie wasn’t about to let it slide.
“Oi, Coach, eyes up here,” Jamie teased, turning to lean against the wall, arms crossed, his grin sharp as a blade. “Unless you’re admiring the merchandise. Calvin Klein, mate. Top shelf. Reckon they’re worth a gander?”
Greg’s jaw tightened, his weathered face flushing just enough to betray him. He was mid-forties, built like a brick shithouse, with salt-and-pepper stubble and a glare that could strip paint. But Jamie wasn’t fazed. He’d seen that look on the pitch—half irritation, half something else. Something hungry.
“You’re a cocky little shit, ain’t ya?” Greg muttered, finishing up and stepping to the sink, his movements brusque. He didn’t look at Jamie, not directly, but the tension was there, crackling like static between them. “Parading around like you’ve got summat worth showing. Them jeans are halfway down your arse, lad. Pull ‘em up ‘fore I do it for ya.”
“Oh, promises, promises,” Jamie shot back, sauntering over to the sink beside Greg, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. He turned on the tap, letting the water run over his hands longer than necessary, his tone dripping with mischief. “Didn’t peg you for the hands-on type, Coach. Thought you just barked orders and watched us sweat. Or is that what gets you going? Watching?”
Greg’s hand froze under the tap, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the sink. For a moment, Jamie thought he’d overstepped—thought he might get a fist to the jaw for his trouble. But then Greg turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Jamie’s with an intensity that made the younger man’s smirk falter, just for a heartbeat.
“You’ve got a mouth on ya, Jamie,” Greg said, his voice quieter now, almost dangerous. “Keep running it, and you’ll find out exactly how hands-on I can be.”
Jamie’s pulse kicked up a notch, but he didn’t back down. He never did. Instead, he leaned in a fraction, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is that a threat or an invitation, big man? ‘Cause I’m game either way. Always fancied a bit of extra training.”
Greg let out a rough bark of laughter, shaking his head as he dried his hands on a crumpled paper towel. “You’re trouble, lad. Always have been. Reckon you’d flirt with a brick wall if it looked at ya twice.”
“Only if the brick wall had your charm, Coach,” Jamie quipped, winking as he mirrored Greg’s movements, grabbing a towel and wiping his hands with a casual swagger. “But seriously, you gonna stand there eye-fucking my boxers all night, or you got summat to say?”
Greg’s expression darkened, but there was a glint in his eye—something that told Jamie he wasn’t entirely pissed off. More like... intrigued. He tossed the towel into the bin with more force than necessary, then crossed his arms, sizing Jamie up like he was a problem to solve.
“Alright, you little prick,” Greg said finally, his tone gruff but laced with something heavier, something suggestive. “If you’re so keen to chat, let’s take it outside the bog. Got a strategy I wanna discuss. Private-like. Over a drink. My shout.”
Jamie’s smirk widened into a full-blown grin, his chest puffing out just a bit. He knew what “strategy” meant in this context, and he was bloody well up for it. Whatever game Greg was playing, Jamie was ready to match him move for move.
“Lead the way, Coach,” he said, gesturing toward the door with a mock bow. “Reckon I’ve got a few plays of me own to show ya.”
Greg snorted, shaking his head again as he pushed past Jamie, his shoulder brushing against the younger man’s just hard enough to send a jolt through him. Jamie watched him go, his heart thumping with a mix of anticipation and raw, reckless excitement. This wasn’t just a pint and a chat. This was a challenge. A promise. And Jamie was ready to see just how far he could push it.
As the door swung shut behind them, leaving the gents’ room empty once more, Jamie couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, “Game fucking on.”
Want to know how it ends?
This is just the opening chapter. Continue the saga — or write a steamy tale starring you.