Page 13 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent

I’m at the match. I probably shouldn’t be. Not for any real reason, just for the simple fact that I’m a glutton for punishment. Camden came through with a ticket like it was no big thing, like it meant nothing more than an extra seat on the comp list.

And now here I am. Sitting in a row of hyped-up fans, sunscreen and beer thick in the air, pretending like I haven’t been friend-zoned so hard I could be running the support group.

But it’s fine. Really .

We’ve been texting every day since the shop. Every. Day.

Sometimes about his sleeve. Sometimes about the pub menu.

Sometimes just random nonsense—memes, random hockey updates from my little brother, that video of the dog who can surf.

I keep it casual. Chill. The kind of texting where I absolutely do not ask what his mouth tastes like again or whether he thought about me that night as much as I did him.

I’ve got a good seat. Right near the halfway line, a few rows up. The view’s incredible. Packed crowd, fans waving flags, belting out chants with wild, proud energy. It’s old-school. Concrete and iron. The kind of place that smells like history and meat pies.

Fifteen thousand people are crammed into this stadium.

I googled the hell out of it earlier—Willow Park, home of the Exeter Seagulls, though officially it’s named something corporate and dull now.

The place is rough around the edges but alive in the way only proper local stadiums can be.

Tight sightlines. Echoing noise. A hum beneath the crowd like we’re all wired into something ancient and furious.

The sun’s still out—for once. A rare warm day in late spring.

The sky’s a brilliant blue, just the edges kissed with haze.

But the shadows are stretching longer now.

The sun’s already starting to dip, and the floodlights are coming on, one row at a time.

They give everything a soft edge of gold and grit.

It’s the second half, and it’s brutal.

The score’s tight. You can feel it in the air. Every hit lands with a collective wince from the crowd. Every call from the ref is met with either cheers or the kind of swearing that would make a sailor blush. The pace hasn’t slowed since the kick-off—if anything, it’s gotten faster, sharper.

I watch Camden—because of course I do. He’s in the middle of the scrum like a force of nature, body low, shoulders locked in.

The man moves like he’s built from stone and fury.

Sweat glistens across the back of his neck, dripping down arms already streaked with dirt and effort.

Admittedly, I’m not close enough to see said sweat, but my imagination is pretty killer when it comes to imagining Camden hot and dripping.

I also definitely did not google rugby rules obsessively just to understand what he does on the pitch.

Absolutely not.

But it is helpful to know that as a tighthead prop, he’s the anchor of the scrum. The brute force. The quiet chaos. The one who makes sure the rest don’t fall apart under pressure.

And he’s damn good at it.

There’s a moment where the opposing team breaks through—close to the line—and Camden gets low, plants his feet, and slams into the guy like a freight train. No hesitation. No flinch. Just clean, efficient violence.

The whole crowd roars. I do too. Not just because it was a good hit, but because it was him. My fingers curl tight around the beer in my hand, and I force myself to breathe. Just breathe. Because yeah, I’m in the friend zone, but if this is the view from there, it’s still kind of amazing.

The final stretch of the match is pure chaos. There are maybe five minutes left on the clock, and everything is blood, noise, and sheer grit. The Seagulls are clinging to a narrow lead, but Newcastle is coming hard—desperate, frantic, throwing everything into one final push.

The guy next to me—an older fan with a scarf that’s seen better decades—keeps shouting, “Hold the bloody line!” like he’s coaching from the stands. His pint’s half spilled down his shirt, and I’m 90 percent sure he doesn’t notice.

I’m on my feet before I realise I’ve moved, shouting, watching Camden throw himself into the breakdown like a man possessed.

He’s relentless, tactical, every movement controlled strength.

He clears a ruck with the kind of power that makes the crowd collectively ooof , then lurches up again, barking something to a teammate I can’t hear.

And then, blessedly—finally—the whistle blows, and the stadium erupts.

Thousands of people become one deafening roar of celebration—flags waving, voices hoarse from yelling, cups of beer sloshing with careless joy. The guy next to me lets out a shout that’s half war cry, half sob of relief, clutching his pint like it’s the last one on earth.

I laugh, still half in disbelief, clapping along even though I’m not really part of it. Or at least I wasn’t, until now.

“Bloody hell,” the man says, turning to me with a grin that stretches to his ears. His face is flushed from sun and adrenaline, his white Seagulls jersey streaked with something that looks suspiciously like ketchup. “That last five minutes took years off my life.”

“Same,” I say, breathless, heart still hammering.

His mate—a shorter guy with mirrored sunglasses pushed onto his head and the most spectacular farmer’s tan I’ve ever seen—leans over, eyeing me speculatively. “First game?”

“Yeah,” I admit, wondering if it was my American accent or how much my inked skin, piercings, and black clothes make me stand out that has him asking. “First live one.”

“Well, you picked a banger. That tighthead—Crawford—he’s a wall. Don’t know how he keeps getting back up.”

My chest warms a little, pride sneaking in like a secret. “Yeah. He’s something.”

One of the guys beside me leans over, clearly catching my tone. “You a fan of his?”

“Yeah,” I say, keeping it neutral. “Seen a few of his matches.”

He nods, satisfied. “Solid player. Doesn’t say much, but he gets the job done.”

The men nod before turning back to the pitch where the players are still shaking hands, swarmed by kids and camera crews. I’m still on my feet, still scanning the field, still watching for one very specific figure in the middle of it all.

Camden moves with purpose, focused even in the aftermath. I catch glimpses of him—mud-streaked, jaw tight, his hair pushed back from his face, eyes scanning the crowd. For a moment, I wonder if he’s looking for me.

Probably not.

Still, I fish my phone from my jacket and fire off the text:

Me: Congrats, Captain. You earned that win. And I hope your offer still stands, because I could definitely go for a pint.

I hit Send before I can second-guess it.

Beside me, the older fan claps me on the back, hard enough to jostle my arm. “You’ll be back for the next one, then?”

I grin. “Yeah. I think I might.”

And I wait, phone in hand, eyes on the pitch, hoping.

The pub’s louder than usual. Doors are open to the early-evening air, the buzz of victory still fresh in everyone’s voices. There’s singing in the corner, and someone’s already spilled their pint before even reaching their table.

I get there early. Too early, I suspect, as I have no idea what Camden has to do after a game before he’s able to leave.

I grab a beer at the bar, thank the server with a smile that’s probably too polite, and move to the side, trying not to look like I’m waiting for someone—even though, yeah, I absolutely am.

I nurse my drink. I check my phone even though there are no new messages. I pretend not to keep glancing at the door.

And then I see him.

Camden.

In a shirt and dark jeans that look sinfully hot, hair still damp from the showers, that same no-nonsense expression on his face that’s probably sent grown men running. And he makes a beeline straight towards me. My chest does something it really shouldn’t—a jump, a flicker—and I brace myself.

He stops in front of me, towering just enough to remind me how much space he takes up. There’s not quite a scowl on his face, but it’s close. That usual furrow between his brows remains. Except his eyes… his eyes aren’t tense. They’re… searching.

“You came,” he says, voice low, already edging towards that familiar gravel.

“You invited me,” I reply, trying for neutral but smiling anyway. “Didn’t want to miss it.”

“Good,” he says simply, and that’s that. No drama. No awkwardness. Just Camden, steady as I’ve come to expect, grounding the moment without even trying.

We fall into step together, the crowd jostling around us. He doesn’t introduce me to anyone, but he doesn’t not acknowledge me either. Some of the players offer nods, a few raised brows.

Lachie spots me and grins wide, nudging the guy next to him before calling out, “Oi, look who it is—Crawford’s ink guy shows up and sticks around. Must be serious.”

Camden lets out a quiet sigh, but it’s more resigned than annoyed.

I catch the barest flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

He also pointedly ignores his friend and leads me towards the back of the pub.

Food’s already coming out and being placed on the tables—burgers, chips, salad, and sharing platters like someone ordered for a rugby team. Because, well, they did.

We sit side by side in a booth, not too close, but close enough that when he leans in to speak, I can smell the clean, sharp scent of whatever soap he used. His knee bumps mine under the table—accidentally, maybe—but he doesn’t move it.

“You enjoy the match?” he asks, voice pitched lower now that the volume’s dropped a bit in the back room.

“Yeah,” I say, and maybe I’m a little too eager, because I hear the energy in my voice even before I can tone it down. “I mean, I’ve seen it on TV before, but in person? It’s wild. The pace, the weight of it. You lot don’t hold back.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No point holding back.”