Page 23 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent

Mondays and Tuesdays are my official days off, but I can pretty much pick and choose my hours. And with the way things have been going—and Thursdays being Camden’s almost guaranteed day off—I’m kinda considering reworking my schedule to spend time with him.

That’s if he wants to, which… considering both Monday and Tuesday ended with me tangled in his sheets after he called to say he was home, I’m hoping he’s keen to spend more than a frantic few hours with me.

Every time we’ve hooked up, it’s been a trembling balance of fun and intense—impressive really, the way he seesaws between the two so effortlessly. He’ll have me laughing one minute, breathless the next, and completely unravelled by the time we’re done.

But it’s not just the sex.

It’s the way he watches me when I’m talking, really listening. The way he keeps trying to hold back something warm behind those guarded eyes, like he’s just waiting for the moment it all gets taken away. It makes me want to prove him wrong—over and over again.

I’m on my way to his flat now—he texted this morning asking if I was still free tonight, followed by “no pressure,” as though I wasn’t already half in love with the way he’s started to pick up on my constant use of “no pressure” before doing something wildly vulnerable. Like asking to see me on a weekday.

I bring a couple of beers in my bag just in case, and when he opens the door, I’m hit again with that quiet warmth that somehow lingers in his space.

His flat smells like whatever detergent he uses and something woodsy and clean.

He looks freshly showered and already barefoot.

My brain short-circuits a little, because it’s such a small detail—but weirdly intimate.

“Hey,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.

“Hey yourself.” I grin, brushing past him. “You surviving your week so far?”

He groans. “Barely. The physio has me doing extra rotational work after training. Apparently, thirty-one means I’m made of glass.”

I laugh. “You’re the fittest piece of glass I’ve ever seen.”

Camden rolls his eyes but his mouth twitches at the corners, and it feels like a small win. We head to the kitchen, and I hand over the beers, sliding onto a bar-stool while he grabs glasses.

“You’d think with how much you train, they’d let up a little,” I say.

“Not with four games left in the season.” He opens one beer and sets it in front of me, then leans against the counter with his. “We’re still third in the table, but it’s tight. Every game could change things.”

“Do you still get that nervous energy before a match?”

Camden tilts his head. “Not nervous, exactly. More like… hyper-focused. Like everything else gets pushed to the background.”

I nod, soaking it in. “So that’s why you go quiet after a game? Recalibrating?”

“Partly.” He shrugs, his voice softer now. “Also just… being around people all day takes it out of me. I love the lads, but I’m not wired for noise twenty-four-seven.”

“Same,” I say. “Which is hilarious considering I work in a tattoo shop with music blaring and clients oversharing.”

That earns me a real laugh, deep and low, and something in my chest settles.

We chat like that for a while—about training, teammates, the stress of press deadlines and social obligations.

He asks about my shop, about my ambitions.

I tell him more about the six-month buy-in window, and how I’m leaning towards taking the plunge.

“You’d be great,” he says simply, as if it’s a fact, not a compliment.

It catches me off-guard. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks.”

Later, we migrate to the couch, beers in hand.

The television plays in the background, muted and forgotten.

Our conversation slows into easy stretches of quiet and little touches—his knee brushing mine, the warmth of his arm just close enough to feel without crowding. He’s softer like this, more himself.

A thought tugs at me, one I’ve been carrying since that night outside the pub. I glance over at him, tentative. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

His brow lifts, wary but open. “Sure.”

“That teammate from the pub—Briggs?” I hesitate, then commit. “What he said… have you talked to him?”

Camden stills. The shift is subtle—shoulders tightening, mouth pressing into a thin line—but I feel it.

“I tried,” he says eventually. “He brushed it off. Joked about being drunk. Said I must’ve misheard.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” His voice is quiet. “I didn’t. And I’ve known him a while. He’s never been… I don’t know. Never given off anything. But lately… he’s been off. Guarded.”

He leans forwards, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed. “I’m worried about him. I don’t know if it’s a sexuality thing or something else entirely, but he’s closing himself off. And if it is about that….” He shakes his head. “I hate that we still live in a world where it has to be this hard.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

Camden looks over at me, and I offer a small smile.

“I came out in high school,” I tell him. “Didn’t have much of a choice. Got caught kissing my then-boyfriend behind the gym.”

His mouth twitches in surprise.

“My folks were… cool about it. Loud, chaotic, weirdly supportive. My mom said something about knowing since I started designing Halloween costumes for all my siblings.”

That earns a soft chuckle.

“And there’s definitely something in the water back home. One of the twins is bi, the other’s gay, and then there’s Cosmo—out and proud, obviously.”

Camden barks out a laugh. “Jesus. Your family sounds like a sitcom.”

“You have no idea.” I grin. “We could power our own Pride float.”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “My parents aren’t like that. I mean… they’re good people. Supportive. But they’re quiet. From the West Midlands. Reserved.”

“They took it okay?”

He nods. “Better than I expected. I think… I think they knew before I did. Even with all the rugby, the size, the noise—my mum especially. She didn’t say anything at the time, just made tea and asked if I wanted to talk. She’s still like that. Quiet but solid.”

I smile at that. “Sounds like you get your grumpy serenity from her.”

He snorts, but I see the fondness in his eyes.

Camden’s still smiling when he leans back, arm now slung over the back of the couch, his fingers absently brushing my shoulder. The gesture feels easy—comfortable—and I lean into it without overthinking.

He glances at me, then says, “My brother Joel’s getting married in July.”

“Oh yeah?” I recall him mentioning a wedding. That he’s opening up to me sends a flutter of fondness in my gut.

“Yeah. July 1. He’s younger—only by two years, but he acts like it’s ten. He’s been with Yasmin for three years now.”

I catch the fondness in his tone. “You like her?”

“Love her. She’s bossy as hell, but she keeps him grounded. Makes him happy. That’s enough for me.”

I nod, sipping my beer. “Family wedding. That’ll be full-on.”

“Oh yeah.” He chuckles. “Whole family will be there. I’m heading back a couple of days before—see my folks, help out, survive the chaos.”

“Will you be home for the week?”

“Short and sweet. I’m heading to the States for a work thing, then summer training kicks off in August. I’ll get a few weeks off once I’m back.”

I nod, lifting my glass. “Good timing.” Question fills his gaze, so I explain, “I’m heading to see my family on the third.”

He glances at me, curious. “Right, your July Fourth celebration.”

“That’s the one. Cosmo added his own special brand of guilt-tripping since I missed last year. Claimed it wouldn’t be a real summer without my ugly face at the barbecue.”

Camden chuckles. “Is the Fourth of July really such a big deal?”

“Oh, it’s huge. Think fireworks, questionable potato salad, people crying over burnt hot dogs. Someone always tries to launch a bottle rocket off the roof. It’s chaos.”

He smirks. “That sounds terrifying.”

“And yet deeply patriotic.” I lean closer with a grin. “Also? Hot. Like, face-melting, shirt-sticking-to-your-back hot.”

He shifts beside me, bumping his knee into mine. “So… basically a health hazard disguised as a national holiday.”

“Exactly.” I tip my head towards him. “You’d hate it.”

He huffs out a laugh but doesn’t deny it. “Probably.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s soft. Familiar in a way I didn’t expect this soon.

He takes another sip of his beer, then murmurs, “It’s been a while since I saw them. My family.”

I don’t push, just reach out and let my knuckles graze his. A quiet gesture. He doesn’t pull away.

And somehow, the quiet that follows says more than anything we’ve managed all night.

I glance over at Camden, the quiet between us comfortable but buzzing just enough that I want to keep it going.

We’re sitting close—shoulders grazing now and then—but not touching otherwise.

His hand curls loosely around his beer glass, thumb slowly tracing the condensation.

The kind of detail I shouldn’t find distracting, but here we are.

I shift, resting an elbow on the back of the sofa. “So what’s the visit for? July, I mean. You’ve mentioned it, but….”

He glances over, eyes thoughtful. “I’ve got a work thing.” He pauses, then adds, “The Seagulls arranged a little tour with three rugby teams in the States. It’s all exhibition stuff—PR, awareness. No pressure, no league points.”

My brows go up. “There are rugby teams back home?”

Camden chuckles. “Apparently. Mostly amateur, semi-pro setups. But they’ve got solid local followings, and there’s been a push lately to grow the sport in North America.”

“God, I’ve been gone too long. I thought football still ruled everything.”

“It does,” he says with a grin. “But rugby’s making noise. Slow and steady.”

I tilt my head. “Where’re you playing?”

“Jacksonville. Tallahassee. Then the final game’s in Atlanta.”

I sit up straighter, heart skipping. “Wait. Jacksonville?”

Camden’s head tilts. “Yeah?”