Page 1 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

My legs shake, my core screams at me, while my neck’s so taut I feel the strain in places I didn’t know could cramp. One more set and I can cool off, collapse, and—if the rugby gods are kind—crawl into bed tonight with my dignity mostly intact.

“Come on, Crawford. Five more.” Joyce bobs his head, watching me like a hawk.

I grunt something that might be agreement—or a death rattle—and hold the neck bridge. It feels like my skull’s about to launch off my spine and roll into the squat rack, but I grit my teeth, knowing I can’t get away with not completing today’s training.

“Four more,” Joyce says, cheerfully ignoring my slow descent into rigor mortis. The strength trainer stays by my side, counting down like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The man’s basically a walking slab of optimism in trackies.

By the time we’re on the last hold, every muscle in my neck and core is singing the national anthem of pain.

“That’s it. Hold.”

The vein in my temple pulses. Maybe it’ll burst and take me out of training early.

“And done.”

“Fuck.” My back hits the floor with the grace of a sack of potatoes, arms splayed out. I should stretch, but I might need a priest first. Or a forklift.

Joyce chuckles. “You’re dramatic today.”

“Today?” I mutter, still trying to locate my soul somewhere near my spine. “You say that like I’m not always two reps from a full existential collapse.”

He snorts. “You love it. You just hate admitting it.”

I give him a slow blink. “That’s not true. I hate it, and I will never admit to anything.”

There’s a familiar shuffle behind me before someone nudges my side with the toe of their trainer. I don’t have to look.

“You dead, Cap?” Lachie, our hooker, my best mate, and resident pain in my arse peers down at me. “You look like roadkill someone politely dragged off the A38.”

I lift one arm and flip him the finger. “Just visualising what peace might feel like.”

Lachie drops down beside me and offers a bottle of water, which I accept like a man who’s not had a drink for days rather than the fifteen minutes it has been. He’s still annoyingly fresh, sweat barely breaking on his forehead, while I look like I’ve fought a bear. Naked. In a sauna.

Wednesday’s our long grind day, and we’ve earned tomorrow off. Not that my legs care—they’re threatening to secede from the rest of me.

“Joyce has a vendetta,” I mutter as the demon master takes off with a far-too-upbeat bounce in his step. “Took something personally in a past life.”

“You do look especially tragic today,” Lachie says with a grin, resting on his elbows. “I should take a photo for that ‘dicks out’ chat you’re in.”

If I had the energy to flip him off again, I’d do so.

I shouldn’t react, but… “We don’t use the chat to jack off together, arsehole, which I will say again , you’re far too invested in the idea of.

And that’s not its name.” The group chat my butthead friend is referring to has an impressive collection of international queer athletes—most I met in the flesh last year at a photoshoot.

Hell, if I suggested a group jackoff session, it’s likely one of the horny arseholes would think it’s a good idea.

Cosmo, probably. I manage to arch my brow at Lachie.

Though since I’m still flat on my back, I’m not sure how effective it is.

“Whatever.” He sighs. “Perhaps I’ll send it to the team chat instead. Rather than finding this”—he waves his hand in my general direction—“a thirst trap, they’ll see the tragedy as God intended.”

I snort as he smirks. “They already think I sleep hanging upside down in a cold cellar. Not sure they need any more proof of just how tragic I am.”

“True.” Lachie rolls his eyes. “But they respect the hell out of you, so it’s probably a very majestic cold cellar. Big, echoey. Fancy torch lighting.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s true. The Seagulls are my team in almost every sense.

Nine years with Lachie by my side, more seasons than I care to count with most of this squad, and I’d still throw down for any one of them without hesitation.

They’re family. Not just in the cliché way—actual family. Not something I say lightly.

My blood family’s up in the West Midlands, and I love them, I do.

But this lot? This scrappy, foul-mouthed, endlessly loyal crew?

They’re my people, my chosen family. The older guys had my back when I came out at twenty-two, when the noise got loud and the headlines tried to twist it.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t carry a bit of that bitterness still.

It’s quieter now, duller around the edges, but it’s made me wary. Guarded.

As a result, I trust who I trust. That circle is small, and I like it that way. It’s also why tonight’s going to be such a ball ache.

I’m meeting someone new—something I try to avoid… like open bars and emotional vulnerability. Tank, my tattoo artist of the last five years, has decided to bugger off to Canada. Says it’s for a “fresh start,” which I think is code for “I’m sick of your grumpy arse, Cam.”

Before he goes, he’s insisted I meet his replacement. Some guy named Brent. Which sounds more like a bloke who sells discount patio furniture than someone I’d trust to put a needle to my skin. But Tank knows me, knows how picky I am about ink—and people.

So yeah. Tonight, I get to grimace awkwardly at a stranger while pretending I’m not already imagining bailing out the back door while wondering if they’re going to sell a story to the press about how I whimpered or got a hard-on while getting ink.

I sigh, then wince as my hip pops when I try to sit up.

Lachie offers a hand. “Want help, old man?”

“Touch me and die.”

He grins. “There’s the ray of sunshine we all know and tolerate.”

The gym’s a humid mess by the time we limp out, sweat-slick and cursing softly, every one of us in some stage of broken.

The locker room’s already buzzing. Lads are stripping off kit, chucking socks into corners with surgical accuracy, snapping towels like feral schoolboys.

The familiar stink of sweat, liniment, and that one mystery protein bar someone dropped behind a bench three weeks ago wraps around me like a weighted blanket. Disgusting. Comforting.

“Oi, Cap,” someone calls. “You survive the Joyce Special?”

It’s Rafi Khan—our rookie winger with lungs for days and legs like he’s got rockets strapped to his boots.

He’s fresh out of the Under-18s England squad, and damn if he doesn’t have the makings of something massive.

He’s already tearing up the pitch in his first pro season like he owns it.

And the best part? He’s not a knob about it.

“Barely,” I grunt, tossing my kit bag into my locker.

“He cried,” Lachie adds, peeling off his shirt. “Tears of pain. And maybe a little shame.”

“I will end you,” I say mildly.

Rafi laughs and drops onto the bench beside me, towelling off his hair. “Well, you still looked cool doing it. Like a dying gladiator.”

“Appreciate that. Put it on my gravestone.”

He grins, wide and easy. It’s the kind of smile you can’t help rooting for.

We all are, really. Kid’s got the game in his blood, and if things go right, we’ll be seeing him on that England squad for the World Cup in three years.

He’s already got the attention of scouts and press.

I just hope he keeps his head down and his ego in check—which so far, he’s managed.

Me? I gave up that dream years back. I never made the England cut, and at thirty-one, I’m not holding my breath.

But seventy-two caps with Exeter and a captaincy that’s lasted longer than some of our sponsorship deals?

I’ll take that. Honestly, I’m proud as hell of what we’ve built here and the part I’ve played.

And this year, we’re third in the Premiership table, with six games left.

It’s tight, and staying in the top four could go either way.

But we’re playing our arses off to make the play-offs, and I’ve never seen the boys hungrier.

Lachie thumps down beside me, cracking open a sports drink. “Anyone seen Tommy?”

“Nope,” Rafi says. “He left early. Said his dog ate something dodgy and puked on his game boots.”

“Again?” Lachie blinks. “That dog needs therapy.”

“That dog needs to stop eating socks,” I mutter, peeling off my damp shirt and resisting the urge to just lie down right here on the floor and melt.

Lachie passes me a bottle. “You going out tonight?”

“Nah.” I shake my head, already picturing the blessed solitude of my flat. “Gonna veg at home. Might cook. Might stare at the wall. Big plans.”

“What about that thing with the new ink guy?” he says casually, but I clock the glint in his eye.

“Brent,” I reply, voice flat. “Yes. Later. A thrilling social engagement I’m deeply excited for.”

Rafi perks up. “New tattoo?”

“Not tonight,” I say, knowing better than having a new piece when I’ll be pummelled in a game a day or two after.

“Just meeting the guy before I get new ink when the season ends. Tank’s leaving and wants me to bond with his hand-picked successor before he runs off to the land of syrup and apologies. ”

Lachie snorts. “Bet Brent’s a sweetheart. You’ll love him.”

I arch my brow in his direction at his weird optimism. “I won’t.”

“You might.”

“I absolutely won’t.”

“Cap,” Rafi cuts in, still half damp and very entertained, “do you ever like new people?”

I pause, then raise a brow. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not unless they come with a rugby ball and an injury report.”

Rafi laughs again, and Lachie leans back against the locker, still grinning.

I’ve got a reputation around here—dour, dry, loyal to a fault.

But the lads, especially those who’ve been here for a few seasons, know the truth.

They’ve seen the worst of me and stuck around.

That makes them mine. And in return, I’d take on the world for them.