Page 2 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

The showers hiss in the background. Someone’s singing off-key. Probably Jules. The mood’s light, but under it all, there’s a current—quiet intensity and shared purpose. Six matches left. Every point matters. Every tackle counts.

After hosing down, I towel off, drag on some fresh clothes, and start to head out.

“Hey, Cap,” Rafi calls as I pass.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t scare this Brent dude too bad, yeah?”

“No promises.”

Rafi grins as he waves me off.

The sun’s dipping low by the time I get home from the supermarket. The sky’s streaked in that soft kind of gold that makes even the car parks look poetic. Not that I’m in the mood to get all sentimental—my lower back’s barking, and my stomach’s doing its best impression of a hollow drum.

My flat’s not far from the club, a short enough drive that I’ve got muscle memory for every traffic light and pothole.

It’s nothing flashy—two-bed, second floor, tucked in a quiet corner of Exeter in a block where mainly other blokes, and a couple of older women, live solo and seem to enjoy silence as much as I do.

We nod in the stairwell, maybe exchange a line or two about the weather, but no one pushes for more. It’s ideal.

I let myself in, toe off my trainers, and take a breath, which feels heavier than it should. It’s quiet, which is how I’ve set things up. How I like it.

Or how I’ve told myself I like it.

Solitude’s a funny thing. I’ve always needed space to reset, to breathe, to not be “Camden Crawford: Captain, Bloke Who Came Out in the Spotlight, Still Has a Solid Tackling Percentage.” I’ve carved out this little corner of the world where I can just be , and for the most part, it’s a relief.

But sometimes—nights like this—there’s an edge to it. It’s a bit like silence with teeth.

Coming out at twenty-two damn near gutted me.

The press had a field day. Fans, strangers, pundits with opinions no one asked for.

I couldn’t so much as step outside for a takeaway without someone trying to snap a photo or shout something clever about my “bravery.” That or they hollered something gross that made it hard not to knock them flat on their arses.

It took me years to stop flinching every time a flash went off.

Years longer to stop trying to shrink myself in public.

And dating? Hooking up? Forget it. I don’t do clubs. I don’t trust people easily. And I sure as hell don’t need another twink with an Instagram account selling a “Hot Night with England Hopeful Camden Crawford” to The Sun . Once was enough, thanks. Six years ago, and it still makes my skin crawl.

So yeah. Maybe I’ve built this quiet life for myself. And maybe I’ve forced myself to like it a little more than I actually do.

I head into the kitchen and put my groceries away. Once the space is tidy, I pull out a pan and toss in some chicken and veggies, the sizzle a small comfort. Cooking helps. Simple, focused, physical. It’s a little like training, but with less screaming from Joyce or Coach.

I’m halfway through chopping basil when my phone buzzes on the counter. I smile, seeing my brother’s name.

I wipe my hands and answer. “Yeah, Joel, I’m alive.”

“I did start to wonder.” His voice is bright, his Walsall accent thicker than mine these days. “Been trying to call you all week, you miserable git.”

“I’ve been busy being professionally pummelled.”

“Well, I’m getting professionally pummelled by wedding planning. So we’re both suffering.”

That gets a small smile out of me. “July’s coming fast.”

“Don’t remind me.” He groans. “Tasha’s got me choosing napkin colours. Napkins , Cam. Like it matters what shade of beige they are.”

“They definitely matter. Pick the wrong one and society collapses.”

“Exactly.” He snorts. “How’s the body holding up?”

I shift, stretching out my shoulder. “Neck’s tight. Legs are pissed. Otherwise fine.”

“You still third?” he asks, and I roll my eyes. Joel is a Villa supporter, which yeah, in our family, it’s criminal not to be, but he’s very much a football fan and not a hardcore rugby fanatic.

“Yep. Just six games left. Could all go tits up, but we’re holding on.”

“Reckon you’ll make the play-offs?”

My grin stretches that he’s using terms I’ve spent years drilling into him. “If we keep playing like we did last weekend. Rafi’s on fire.”

“That’s the kid with the ridiculous speed?”

“That’s the one. Whole team’s rooting for him to make England. He’s got it in him.”

Joel’s quiet a beat, then says, “You seeing anyone?”

I bark a laugh. “What, in my spare time between being a hermit and dodging tabloid scum?”

His grunt of agreement travels through the speaker. Joel had been ropable during all the bullshit coverage when I came out. Like my team, he’s always had my back. “You’ve got a decent beard now. Someone out there must be into grumpy cavemen. Or bears—is that what some guys call you?”

I bark out a laugh and stir the pan. “Fuck off. I am not a bear. And perhaps never talk to me about bears again.” My brother means well.

He also loves stirring me up. And as for being a bear…

. I hold back my sigh. Sure, I may look the part, and at work, I can be grizzly and protective as fuck, but in the bedroom, what I wouldn’t give to be railed by someone who knew what they were doing and was strong enough to handle me.

I clear my throat and shake thoughts away that I absolutely don’t want to have while on the phone to my brother.

Joel’s laugh is loud. “Okay, okay, no grizzly talk. I got it. Are you good for tonight? You’re meeting the new tattoo guy, right? Which I haven’t told Mum about, by the way, and you’re welcome.”

He laughs again, warm and easy. It softens something in me. Reminds me I’m not just the player or the captain or the wall people bounce off. I’m also a brother. A son. A man with people who love me even if I vanish into myself sometimes.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay,” I say, a little quieter.

Joel knows all about my aversion to strangers.

Sure, there are times he’ll take the piss while singing “stranger danger” at me, but he knows all too well how people try to get close for all the wrong reasons.

He’s also one of the few people who really know how meeting people like this Brent guy, someone who’s going to be in my space and I’ll inevitably spend hours alone with, makes me truly stressed.

Put me on a pitch with fifteen rugby players who I’ve never played before, my face squashed against theirs in a scrum, and I’m just peachy. Outside of rugby is a whole different story.

“I know. Just give the guy a chance. You trust your old tattooist, right?”

“Right,” I agree, albeit a little reluctantly.

“So I’m sure he wouldn’t hand over his client list to a wankstain.”

I huff out a laugh. “Here’s hoping he hasn’t.”

“I’m sure it’ll be bostin. Listen, I best get gone. I just wanted to check on ya.”

“Thanks, Joel. ’Preciate it, bro.”

“Take care of yourself, Cam.”

“You, too, man.”

We hang up, and the silence creeps back in, but it’s softer now, a little less isolated. I finish cooking, plate up, and sit down at my little table, phone facedown beside me.

Outside, the light fades, while inside, I eat alone. And in a couple of hours, I’ll be meeting Brent.

Here’s hoping the guy doesn’t turn out to be a prick.