The Rusty Anchor Pub was a dive in the best way—sticky floors, the faint tang of stale beer, and a jukebox that hadn’t played anything past 1995. It was Jamie’s kind of place, a grimy little kingdom where he could strut like a peacock and no one batted an eye. At twenty-two, he was all sharp cheekbones and sharper wit, a lad who knew how to work a room. Tonight, after downing a few pints of lukewarm lager, he felt that familiar buzz in his veins, the kind that made him reckless. His low-slung jeans hung just right, the band of his Calvin Klein boxers peeking out like a neon sign screaming, *Look at me.* He pushed open the door to the gents’ room with a swagger, the dim fluorescent light flickering overhead like it was as hungover as half the pub’s clientele.
The space smelled of piss and cheap pine cleaner, a potent mix that stung the nostrils. Jamie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and there, at the urinal, stood Mick bloody Harper—his old rugby coach from secondary school, a man built like a brick wall with a face that looked like it had taken one too many scrums. Mid-forties, grizzled, with forearms like tree trunks, Mick was mid-stream, staring straight ahead with the kind of focus that said he didn’t suffer fools. But Jamie? Jamie was a fool with a death wish and a grin to match.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Coach Harper,” Jamie drawled, sidling up to the urinal next to Mick, even though there were two others free. He unzipped with a deliberate slowness, letting the sound cut through the awkward silence. “Didn’t expect to see you watering the tiles on a Friday night. What’s the matter, old man—aim not what it used to be?”
Mick didn’t flinch, didn’t turn his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a smirk that could’ve been amusement or annoyance. “Cheeky little shit, aren’t you, Jamie?” His voice was a low rumble, rough as gravel, the kind that used to make lads on the pitch snap to attention. “Some of us don’t need to flash our knickers to feel like a man.”
Jamie chuckled, a bright, brassy sound that echoed off the grimy walls. He shifted his hips just so, making damn sure the waistband of his Calvins caught the light. “Oh, come off it, Coach. You’re telling me you ain’t noticed? I’m practically doing you a favor—giving you something to look at while you’re stuck in this piss-soaked hellhole.”
Mick’s eyes flicked sideways then, just for a split second, landing on the sliver of fabric above Jamie’s jeans before snapping back to the wall. But Jamie caught it, and his grin widened into something feral. “Oi, don’t play coy now. Saw that. What’s the matter—miss the locker room days, do ya? Bet you’ve been itching to bark orders at someone like me again.”
Mick snorted, zipping up with a sharp jerk of his wrist. He turned just enough to face Jamie, his broad frame looming even in the cramped space. His eyes, a stormy gray, pinned Jamie in place, and there was something in them—something hungry, something dangerous—that made Jamie’s pulse kick up a notch. “You’ve got a mouth on you, lad. Always did. But I don’t play games with brats who think they’re hot shit just ‘cause they’ve got a pretty pair of pants.”
Jamie arched a brow, stepping back from the urinal but not bothering to zip up just yet. He crossed his arms, letting his jeans slip a fraction lower, the outline of his bulge unmistakable under the tight denim. “Brat, am I? That’s cute, Coach. But let’s not pretend you ain’t curious. I’ve seen the way you look at me—back on the field, and right bloody now. You wanna know if I’ve got the balls to back up the talk, don’t you?”
Mick’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there as he stepped closer, the air between them crackling like a live wire. He smelled of beer and sweat and something raw, something that made Jamie’s mouth go dry despite the bravado. “Careful, Jamie,” Mick growled, his voice dropping an octave, rough and intimate in a way that sent a shiver down Jamie’s spine. “You keep pushing, and I might just call your bluff. You think you’re the big man, strutting in here like you own the place? Prove it, then. Show me you’re not just a cocky little prick with nothing to offer but a cheap show.”
Jamie’s heart was hammering now, but he didn’t back down. He couldn’t—not with Mick staring at him like that, all challenge and heat, like he was daring him to cross a line they both knew was there. He tilted his chin up, his smirk never faltering, and leaned in just enough that their breaths mingled. “Oh, I’ve got plenty to offer, Coach. Question is, can you handle it? ‘Cause I’m not one of your timid little lads who’ll roll over just ‘cause you growl. You want a piece of me? You’re gonna have to work for it.”
Mick’s eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them, and for a moment, Jamie thought he might just grab him right there, drag him out of the gents’ and into some dark corner of the pub. But instead, Mick stepped back, just an inch, enough to break the suffocating tension but not the promise of it. “Don’t think I won’t, lad,” he said, voice low and lethal. “Finish your piss and get your arse back out there. This ain’t over—not by a long shot.”
Jamie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, zipping up with a casual flick of his wrist as Mick turned and strode out, the door swinging shut behind him with a heavy thud. His knees felt like jelly, but he’d be damned if he let it show. He glanced at himself in the cracked mirror above the sink, his reflection smirking back at him, eyes bright with the thrill of it all. “Game on, old man,” he muttered to himself, splashing cold water on his face to cool the heat still burning under his skin.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t ending in the gents’ room of The Rusty Anchor. Not tonight, and not anytime soon. Jamie could feel it—the pull, the power play, the unspoken dare hanging between them. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to play to win.
Want to know how it ends?
This is just the opening chapter. Continue the saga — or write a steamy tale starring you.