The Rusty Anchor Pub was a dive in the truest sense—sticky floors, dim lights, and the kind of clientele that made you question your life choices. But for Jamie, it was home on a Friday night. The beer was cheap, the crowd was loud, and after three pints of lukewarm lager, the world was just the right shade of blurry. He swaggered through the throng of sweaty bodies, his low-slung jeans riding just a tad too low, the bright red band of his Calvin Klein boxers peeking out like a cheeky invitation. He knew he looked good—hell, he’d spent an hour in the mirror perfecting the “I just rolled out of bed looking this hot” vibe. A quick wink at a giggling barmaid confirmed it as he pushed open the creaky door to the gents’ room.
The air inside was a pungent mix of cheap cologne and stale piss, the flickering fluorescent light casting harsh shadows on the cracked tiles. Jamie sauntered to the urinal, hips rolling with the kind of cocky confidence that only comes from youth and a buzz. He unzipped, letting out a satisfied sigh as he relieved himself, when a gravelly voice cut through the quiet like a rusty blade.
“Oi, lad, you auditionin’ for a bloody underwear ad or just forgot how to wear trousers?”
Jamie’s head snapped to the side, a grin already curling his lips. Standing at the urinal next to him was none other than Mick “Iron” Hargrove, his old football coach from secondary school. The man was a legend—six foot four of pure gruff muscle, with a jaw that could crack walnuts and a glare that had made grown men cry on the pitch. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, and his worn leather jacket creaked as he shifted, giving Jamie a once-over that was equal parts disdain and amusement.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Coach Hard-Ass himself,” Jamie shot back, not missing a beat. He arched a brow, shaking off with deliberate slowness before zipping up, making sure the red waistband stayed in full view. “Didn’t expect to see you in a dump like this. Thought you’d be at some fancy wine bar, intimidatin’ the waiters.”
Mick snorted, a rough, guttural sound that echoed off the tiled walls. “And I didn’t expect to see you flashin’ your knickers like a tart on the pull. What’s the game, Jamie? Tryin’ to impress someone with your… assets?” His dark eyes flicked down to the waistband, lingering just a second too long before meeting Jamie’s gaze with a smirk that could’ve melted steel.
Jamie laughed, leaning a shoulder against the wall as he crossed his arms, the tight fabric of his black tee straining over his biceps. He knew the pose made him look good, and he wasn’t above using it. “Maybe I am, Coach. Problem is, the only one lookin’ is you. Should I be flattered or worried?”
Mick’s smirk widened into something dangerous, his thick arms folding over his broad chest as he turned to face Jamie fully. “Careful, lad. I’ve flattened bigger egos than yours with less effort. You’re playin’ with fire, struttin’ around like that. Someone might just take a bite.”
“Oh, I’m tremblin’,” Jamie drawled, his voice dripping with mock fear as he stepped closer, closing the already tight space between them. The air crackled, heavy with the scent of beer and something darker, something unspoken. “But let’s be real, Mick. You’ve been eyein’ me up since I walked in. What’s the matter? Miss coachin’ me so much you can’t help but stare?”
Mick’s jaw ticked, but his eyes glinted with something that wasn’t quite anger. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low growl that sent a shiver down Jamie’s spine despite the bravado. “You’ve got a mouth on you, boy. Always did. Used to drive me up the bloody wall on the pitch. Still does, if I’m honest.”
Jamie’s grin turned wicked, his green eyes flashing with mischief. “Good. Means I’m still gettin’ under your skin. Question is, Coach, what’re you gonna do about it? Bark at me like the old dog you are, or… somethin’ else?”
For a moment, the gents’ room was silent save for the distant thump of bass from the pub beyond. Mick’s gaze bored into Jamie’s, hard and unyielding, but there was a flicker of something raw there, something hungry. He straightened, towering over the younger man, and let out a rough chuckle. “You’re a cocky little shit, Jamie. Always were. But I ain’t one of your pretty barmaids to flirt with. Keep pushin’, and you might not like what you get.”
Jamie tilted his head, undeterred, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip—a move he knew was pure provocation. “Promises, promises, Coach. I’ve always liked a challenge. And you? You’re lookin’ like the biggest one in the room.”
Mick’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching just enough to be noticeable, and for a split second, Jamie thought he might’ve pushed too far. But then the older man barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he stepped back, breaking the tension like a snapped thread. “Get outta here, lad, before I drag you back to the pitch and make you run laps ‘til you puke. And pull your bloody trousers up. You’re a disgrace.”
Jamie chuckled, giving a mock salute as he backed toward the door, his gaze never leaving Mick’s. “Yes, sir, Coach. But you know where to find me if you change your mind about that… challenge.”
As the door swung shut behind him, Jamie’s heart was pounding, a mix of adrenaline and something hotter coursing through his veins. He’d always known how to play the game, how to push buttons and get a reaction. But with Mick, it felt different. Dangerous. And damn if he didn’t want to play again.
Back in the gents’ room, Mick stared at the closed door, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. That lad was trouble with a capital T. Always had been. And yet, as he turned back to the sink, splashing cold water on his face, he couldn’t shake the image of that red waistband—or the fire in Jamie’s eyes. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
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