Page 14 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

I turn towards him a bit. “The scrum’s more brutal than I thought. You’re just in there, anchored, like… like the centre of a wheel or something. And that breakdown near the end—Jesus, that was tight.”

His eyebrows lift, just a little. “You’ve been studying.”

I grin. “Maybe. I might’ve googled some stuff.”

His eyes flick over my face, and I can tell he’s amused. But also maybe—just maybe—pleased.

“Say ‘breakdown’ again,” he says, dry as anything.

I narrow my eyes. “You mocking me?”

“A bit,” he admits, lips twitching. “But I’m impressed.”

We lapse into another moment of quiet as another round of food arrives. Wings first. Something messy and beautiful. Camden reaches for one without ceremony, wipes his hand on a napkin, and glances sideways at me again, offering me a sort-of smile before he bites into the wing.

I follow suit, and before long, the back room fills slowly—teammates trickling in, laughter bouncing off the worn brick walls, the occasional thud of a heavy chair being dragged back. Someone’s already raided the jukebox, and a low thrum of 2000s indie rock filters through the hum of conversation.

Plates of food keep arriving like magic. Hot dogs, wedges, onion rings the size of bracelets. It smells like grease and salt and glory.

Camden and I are still side by side—closer than before, if that’s even possible. The booth seat’s narrow, all of the tables packed, and eventually there’s nowhere else for our thighs to go but flush against each other. His pants are warm, firm, and solid against mine, and he doesn’t shift away.

God, help me.

Every movement he makes sends a pulse through my body—shoulders rolling under his shirt, exposing his sinful forearms from where he’s rolled up the cuffs, as he reaches for another wing. His hand is close enough that if I moved two inches, I could touch the inside of his wrist. I don’t.

But I want to.

It’s hard not to feel the sheer size of him pressed this close.

He’s massive—built to hit, to hold, to command space like it’s nothing.

My mind shouldn’t be going where it’s going.

Not with this whole friends thing. Not when I’ve been watching him push his body to the limit for eighty minutes under the sun.

Not when he’s already this raw, this open in a way I know costs him something.

But I do. Of course I do.

I want to know what he sounds like when he gives in. What it’d be like to take him apart slow and greedy. To get my hands on that thick, powerful body and feel it shake under me.

My fingers tighten around the neck of my beer bottle. God, I’d wreck him.

And now I’m thinking about Camden Crawford, professional hard-ass and resident mystery man, on his knees—eyes dark, that mouth parted, his hand on my thigh, letting go for me. Trusting me to take control.

My skin heats. I swallow hard.

Fuck, I’m so gone.

A hot prickle climbs the back of my neck. I shift slightly, trying to adjust without drawing attention to the very real, very inconvenient situation in my jeans.

Camden leans in slightly, glancing at me, brow furrowed. “You all right?” His voice is lower now, quieter than before, just for me. His thigh presses more firmly against mine as he turns.

I practically squeak my “Yeah.”

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “You sure?”

I take a long pull from my beer and avoid direct eye contact like a guilty schoolboy. “Just hot. It’s warm in here.”

A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve sworn you were cold earlier.”

“I run complicated,” I mutter into my bottle.

He chuckles— chuckles —and I’m dead. That sound is going to live in my head for days. I glance sideways and catch him watching me with something that might be amusement… or something else entirely.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lets the moment sit there, heavy with things neither of us are quite saying.

And even though I’m burning up and biting the inside of my cheek to stay focused on anything other than the feel of his thigh against mine, the low sound of his voice, or the fact that he still hasn’t moved away…

I think I might be the happiest, horniest, most tortured man in Devon right now.

Time slips by without me noticing. Somewhere between half-hearted jokes and another round of drinks, the energy in the room softens.

The match buzz fades to a low hum. The food’s been picked over, plates messy with bones and fries, bottles and empty pint glasses lined up in chaotic clusters across the table that has eight of us squeezed around it.

It’s getting late now—maybe edging towards ten, maybe later—but no one’s in a rush to leave.

The noise is softer too. Less roar, more rumble. That post-match glow still clings to everything, but in that slowed, satisfied way that comes after winning something hard-fought. There’s laughter, shoulders pressed together, heads tipped back. Rugby guys, proud and bruised and loud.

Camden’s still next to me, his thigh still pressed against mine. He hasn’t moved away. Not once.

Lachie, with a cut on his brow and a twinkle in his eye that says he lives to cause problems, leans over with a mock-stern look. “Still here, Crawford? Thought you only stayed for an hour before doing your brooding-wolf-slips-off-into-the-shadows thing.”

Camden makes a low noise, clearly unimpressed. “Piss off.”

Another guy—lean and tattooed, clearly a winger by the looks of him—grins around his bottle. “Seriously, though. He’s stayed all night. Write it down.”

Lachie eyes me like I’m part of some cosmic puzzle. “You’ve got a hell of a pull, mate. Usually takes a full five pints and an emergency team strategy session to keep him this long.”

“Maybe I’m just charming,” I offer.

Lachie smirks. “I like this one.” Then he glances back at Camden and, without missing a beat, says, “You should definitely come to the next match.”

Camden tenses beside me. Just slightly. But instead of arguing or deflecting like I expect him to, he says nothing. He simply takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking anywhere but mine.

I look at him, trying to read what that silence means. Does he want me there? Or is this just one of those “it’s easier not to explain” things? Still, I did enjoy the game, and the buzz, and even the weird, live-wire thrill of watching him work like that.

So I grin. “Sure. I’m up for it.”

Camden doesn’t respond immediately, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch, like he’s not entirely mad about it.

Then his phone buzzes again.

And again.

And again.

He pulls it out with a huff. “Sorry. It’s blowing up tonight.”

Lachie leans over with zero shame. “It’s his jerk-off group. They’re probably swapping nudes.”

I splutter mid-sip and cough-laugh so hard, I nearly snort beer out my nose. “Jesus.”

Camden glares at him. “Piss. Off.” But he’s not angry. Not really. More like exasperated. The kind of reaction that only comes from years of enduring the same brand of chaos. He looks at me and waves his phone slightly. “It’s not a jerk-off group.”

“Oh?” I say, still laughing. “Disappointing.”

Camden shoots me a look, but he’s smirking now. “It’s actually a chat group I’ve got with a bunch of queer athletes. We all met last year—photoshoot thing, article in Queervolution . Kept in touch after. It’s… decent.”

My brain halts.

Holy fuck.

My gaze snaps to him before I can help it, eyes wide, heart doing that stupid stutter again.

He notices. Of course he does. His expression shifts slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to work out exactly what I know—and whether it’s a problem. “What?” he says, cautious but not sharp. “Didn’t think I had friends?”

“No,” I say quickly, lifting a hand. “No, it’s just—That’s… cool. I actually saw your name when I was looking up what a tighthead prop even does. One of the links mentioned an old interview. Some press crap too.”

His jaw ticks once, barely. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “They had a field day back then.”

“I noticed,” I say, softer now. “But nothing in the last few years, which is kind of impressive.” It seriously is no easy feat, staying out of the limelight, especially as an out player.

He shrugs, glancing away for a second. “I learned to keep my head down.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. But he looks at me again, more searching than before. Like he’s waiting for some hint of judgement, some flinch.

He won’t find it.

Instead, I smile. “Still badass, being involved in that Queervolution article.”

His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable there. The tension in his jaw loosens, just a little. Lachie, mercifully distracted by someone else’s fries, turns his attention away, and Camden relaxes a bit beside me. Not fully—he’s still Camden, after all—but the edge softens.

I don’t ask for more. But I file it away, this new layer of him. One he didn’t have to share but did anyway. Because Camden Crawford might be the quietest man in the room, but there’s a hell of a lot going on underneath.

And somehow, he let me see it.

He’s still scrolling through his phone, thumb scrolling with the kind of concentration that looks suspiciously like he’s trying not to smile. His mouth twitches once— once —and that’s when the thought creeps in.

Wait a second.

I’d skimmed that article when it came out. It was a big deal—queer athletes from different sports speaking out, showing up, challenging perceptions. I remembered the photoshoot. How could I not? Saw the buzz. I even remember thinking, Holy shit, where were guys like this when I was coming out?

But now that I think about it, why can’t I remember seeing Camden’s name?

Or even his image? Sure, I probably hadn’t been reading it for the journalism, but still.

If I’d seen him, I would’ve remembered. Hell, he’d have been my late-night fantasy long before I knew his name, never mind kissed him in an alley.

Probably for the best I didn’t, I think, trying to fight the smile tugging at my mouth.

And maybe it’s that—maybe it’s the feeling of knowing just a little more about him, or maybe it’s the buzz of connection still humming between us—but it’s time to test the waters.

I tip my head casually. “So… is the group chat called Love the Game?”

The effect is immediate. He stops scrolling. His head lifts slowly, eyes narrowing with a look that could freeze the surface of a lake in July. The air between us sharpens. “Excuse me?” The words have bite. Not loud, but lethal.

Oh shit.

Abort mission.

I lift both hands, one still holding my beer. “Wait, no—hold on. I’m not spying or anything. I swear.”

His expression doesn’t budge.

“I only asked,” I say quickly, “because my brother’s in a group chat. Similar vibe. Queer athletes. He’s in college—plays ice hockey. I told you a bit about him. His name’s Cosmo. He mentioned the group name once.”

Camden stares at me, still frozen. A beat passes. Then another.

I start to wonder if I’ve just accidentally ended our friendship, potential sleeve work, and the chance of ever seeing him shirtless again, all in one well-meaning question.

And then, he unfreezes, eyes widening just enough to register shock. “Wait. Cosmo?”

I nod. “Yeah. Pain in my ass. Talks like he’s got his own podcast, never stops moving, allergic to shirts.”

Camden stares for half a second longer, then lets out a low breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “No shit,” he mutters, almost to himself.

I grin, some of the unease in my gut unravelling. “You know him?”

He huffs—actually huffs—and shakes his head, the tension in his shoulders practically melting on the spot. “Yeah. He never shuts the fuck up in the chat. Always tagging people in memes at two in the morning.”

“Sounds about right,” I say. “Once sent me a playlist titled ‘You’d Be Hotter with a Moustache.’”

Camden chuckles—a real one this time. Not quite full-bodied, but enough to make me feel like I’ve won something I didn’t know I was competing for.

“Jesus,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That kid’s everywhere.”

I laugh. “He’s like glitter. Gets into everything and impossible to shake.”

Camden looks at me again, and this time there’s something different in his eyes. Not fully relaxed—he’s too tightly wound for that. But there’s less guard. Less steel. His voice, when he speaks again, is warmer than I’ve ever heard it. “Small fucking world.”

“No kidding.”

He shakes his head again, his smile staying in place. “Cosmo’s your kid brother.”

“For better or worse,” I say with a shrug.

And in this moment, he feels closer. Like the wall’s still there, but the gate’s cracked open just enough to see through. And damn, this version of Camden Crawford? Quietly amused, maybe even a little at ease? This version might be my new favourite addiction.