Page 25 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

Two losses in a row.

I stare up at the night sky, still heaving for breath. The floodlights bleach the drizzle into a slow silver fall. My lungs burn. My calves twitch. My chest tightens with something more than exertion.

A fumble.

My fumble.

It wasn’t game-ending—at least, not alone—but it shifted momentum. Killed a surge. One second, I had the ball; the next, it bounced out of my grasp like a greased-up mistake, snatched by red jerseys and sprinted fifty yards upfield. They scored three plays later.

That was the beginning of the end. And I felt it as soon as it happened. Like something broke in the pit of my stomach.

I tug my gumshield out and shove it into my wrist guard, forcing myself to stay upright as the team moves off the pitch. Some of the lads keep their heads high. Others don’t bother. There’s a heaviness in the air that clings to every boot print on the sodden turf.

“Camden! A quick word?”

I’m barely three steps towards the tunnel before a mic is thrust at my chest. A reporter in waterproofs leans into me, teeth bared in what I guess is supposed to pass as a smile.

“Captain Crawford, any comment on what went wrong out there tonight?”

Wrong? I could write her a list. The breakdowns were sloppy. Kicks poorly placed. Our defence cracked twice in the second half. But it’s my error—the fumble—they want blood for.

I wipe the rain from my brow, careful not to let it look like a flinch. “They were stronger at the breakdown. We made mistakes. I made mistakes. But we’ll regroup. That’s the job.”

She tilts her head, like she smells blood. “Some commentators are saying the team looks… flat. Unfocused. You’ve now dropped to fourth in the table. Play-off qualification is no longer in your hands. There’s even talk about your captaincy being on the line. Thoughts?”

I stare at her. No blink. Just the hum of white noise in my ears. “Excuse me,” I say, stepping away.

I hear her calling something after me—maybe a follow-up, maybe just my name. But I’m done.

Inside the tunnel, the floodlights fade behind me and the shadows stretch longer. Each footfall echoes off concrete. I brace my forearm against the wall, letting my head hang for a breath, then push forwards.

The locker room is quiet. Not silent—there’s the hiss of showers, the occasional mutter, the crack of a boot being thrown into a kit bag. But it’s missing the usual post-match rhythm: no jokes, no banter, no tension-breaking sarcasm.

Instead, the loss settles on us like wet clothes: clammy, suffocating, impossible to shrug off.

I sit, unlace my boots, and peel the sodden tape from my wrists. Across from me, Lachie’s jaw is tight as he towel-dries his hair. He meets my eyes and gives a tiny nod. I nod back. It’s the only communication that passes between us.

The scrape of a locker door slamming pulls my attention left—Jake and Marcus.

“Every bloody time,” Jake mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We lose structure because someone can’t track their runner.”

Marcus spins. “Are you talking about me?”

Jake shrugs. “If the shoe fits, mate.”

Marcus takes a step forwards. “You calling me out after you dropped two balls in the first half?”

“Yeah, and I didn’t cost us the match, did I?”

That’s it.

I stand. “Enough.”

Both of them look at me, startled.

“This isn’t helping. This isn’t who we are. We win together, and we lose together. Everyone made mistakes tonight.”

Jake opens his mouth, but I don’t give him the chance. “Everyone.”

The air shifts, and Jake backs down. Marcus scowls but sits.

I breathe slowly. My voice is firm. “We’ve got two games left. One more loss and we’re out of the running. I know that. You know that. But if we start imploding now, we’re already done.”

Silence.

Behind me, someone mutters, “We’re already done anyway.”

I don’t turn to see who it is.

Instead, I lower onto the bench and lean forwards, elbows on knees. The ache in my shoulders spreads to my chest. I feel it. The captaincy—not the title but the weight. The sense that every dropped ball, every missed lineout, every angry teammate is another stone on my back.

I run a hand through my wet hair and glance towards the corner where Lachie’s getting changed. He’s quiet, focused, avoiding eye contact with everyone. That tells me more than anything.

He’s angry. And worse, he’s worried.

If we lose again next week, we won’t even qualify for play-offs. It’ll be the first time in five years. And I’m the one they’ll blame. Because I’m thirty-one. Because I’ve got seventy-two caps and they think that makes me tired. Because when I fumbled that ball tonight, I looked human.

I stare down at my calloused palms, the blisters just beginning to reform beneath the tape.

The door to the physio room opens and Joyce steps out. He looks around, assesses the mood, and doesn’t say a word, just nods once, slowly.

A couple of the lads head towards the showers. One or two don’t bother. Just change and go, like they want to escape the stink of failure still clinging to the walls.

Lachie passes me, towel over one shoulder, kit bag in hand. He stops. “You good?” he asks quietly.

I nod and lie, “Yeah.”

He slows as he reaches my bench, keeping his voice low—just for me. “You seeing Brent tonight?” he murmurs, gaze steady.

Things are still new between me and Brent, but I’ve told Lachie enough. He knows I’ve been spending a lot of time with him. That the last month has been a whirlwind of incredible sex, quiet nights, and—for the first time in a long time—me not feeling completely alone.

I hesitate. “Dunno. Maybe.” It comes out gruff, but he doesn’t push. He just nods, like he’s handing me a small lifeline and hoping I’ll take it.

“See you on the bus,” he says, and keeps walking.

“Yeah.”

He’s gone, and I sit there a bit longer.

The room thins out. The silence gets louder. My thoughts crowd tighter in my chest.

The media will be waiting. Twitter—as hell no will I call it anything else—already has clips of my fumble, I’m sure. The armchair experts are probably dissecting my footwork. My grip. My age. My attitude. And none of them know me. Not really. But that doesn’t mean their words won’t stick.

By the time I get to the team bus, I’m the last one.

There are flashes everywhere. Cameras in my face. Microphones being waved like knives. The press are a pack of wolves tonight—hungry, loud, circling for blood. I keep my head down. Shoulders squared. I don’t give them the soundbite they’re aching for.

A reporter calls my name like we’re mates. Another shouts something about leadership, about pressure. I hear my surname tossed out like it’s up for auction.

I grit my teeth and keep moving.

The bus door hisses open, and I climb the steps, breath tight in my chest. I’m wet from the drizzle, collar clinging to the back of my neck, my kit bag dragging heavier than usual behind me.

My fingers twitch with the need to punch something.

Not someone—just… something solid. Something that’ll crack.

Inside, the atmosphere is dead quiet. Heads are down.

A few guys have their earbuds in. One or two scroll their phones with the thousand-yard stare of post-loss burnout.

No one is joking. No one is even whispering.

It’s all just heavy silence, broken only by the dull thud of the doors closing behind me.

I spot an open seat midway back. Not beside anyone. Thank fuck. I slide into it and sag against the headrest, letting my body slump, knees spread wide, elbows braced on thighs.

I rub a hand down my face. We should’ve won the game. Hell, we should’ve won both. But a couple of errors, a few missteps… and now we’ve gone from third in the league to fourth. One more screw-up and we’ll be watching the play-offs from the couch.

And me? I fumbled the goddamn ball.

The same thoughts keep circling my mind, and I suspect they will continue to until we win the next game. We have to win it.

My jaw clenches as I drag my phone out of my pocket, half expecting silence there too. But there’s a message.

Brent: That looked like a brutal game. Hope you’re holding up.

Just that.

No “chin up.” No “you’ve got this.” No hollow cheerleading bullshit.

It’s… perfect. Exactly what I need. No noise. No pressure. Just him, checking in.

I stare at the words for a beat. Then my thumbs move.

Me: Brutal’s one word for it. Could’ve done with a few fewer fumbles. Namely mine.

The three dots appear.

Brent: So you made a mistake. Happens. Anyone pointing fingers clearly doesn’t play a contact sport for a living.

I huff out a laugh. It’s barely a sound, more an exhale. I shift in the seat and rest my head back against the cold window.

Me: Tell that to the tabloids.

That’s the thing. There’s no waiting for tomorrow’s headline, not anymore. Everything is instant and splashed online for everyone to search up and read.

Brent: Tabloids eat their own. Don’t let them decide your worth. You’re more than the headline they’re hoping to print.

The knot in my chest loosens, just a little. His words don’t try to fix anything. But they don’t ignore it either. It’s grounding.

But then the doubt creeps in—ugly, insidious.

I stare at the screen. I haven’t told him yet how much I need to keep this separate from the rest of my life. From rugby. From the weight I carry on this bus every week. And I start to wonder…

Is this the distraction they’re talking about?

Is Brent the reason I fumbled that ball?

No.

No, fuck that.

This isn’t about him.

But the thought lingers. Quiet. Dangerous. Shadowed and unspoken.

I lock the phone and tuck it away.

Outside, the lights blur into long, streaking lines across the windows.

Inside, the silence remains heavy and tight.

I feel every missed pass like a bruise beneath my ribs.

Every misstep like a fracture I can’t reset.

And deep down, beneath all the adrenaline and self-reproach, there’s something colder.

More uncertain. Not about the game, but about me.

About who I am when I’m not winning.

And whether I deserve someone like Brent if I can’t even hold my own on the pitch.

Because if I can’t lead this team, if I can’t be the captain they need… what the hell am I even doing? And what happens when he realises I’m not as solid as I pretend to be?

The bus pulls into the stadium parking lot, the engine’s hum fading as the vehicle comes to a stop.

I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and make my way down the aisle.

The atmosphere is heavy; no one speaks. As I step off the bus, I offer a quiet “Goodnight” to the group, but it’s met with silence.

Unsurprisingly, no one is up for drinks—not that I’d go anyway.

Coach catches my eye as I head towards my car. He gives me a nod, and I approach him.

“Rough game,” he says.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak without letting frustration seep into my voice.

“We’ll review the footage tomorrow,” he continues. “Get some rest.”

“Will do,” I reply, then turn towards the car park.

I stop walking when I see him—Brent, leaning against the hood of my car like he belongs there.

My breath catches. Not just because he looks good— he always looks good —but because I wasn’t expecting him.

And even though a part of me wants to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in, another part instantly flinches, scanning the shadows.

My eyes flick over the dark edges of the lot, half expecting a camera lens to catch the moment and spin it into something ugly.

He sees the way I pause. Maybe he even sees the way I look around, and it kills me that I’m doing that in the first place.

He doesn’t move, just says softly, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I murmur, too gruff. My voice is always like this when I’m wiped, but tonight it’s got more gravel than usual.

He straightens slowly, hands in his jacket pockets. “I didn’t want to just show up at your place.”

I nod, grateful for the respect even as I war with myself.

Brent being here is both the best thing that could happen and the worst idea I can entertain.

I shouldn’t let him in—not after a game like this.

Not when the headlines are already questioning my leadership, my focus.

Not when I’m not even sure who I am without the wins.

But I’m so fucking tired.

Not just physically. Deep in my bones, I ache with something heavier than exhaustion. I want him. Want his steadiness, his warmth, his quiet refusal to let me spiral alone. And it makes no sense. We’ve only known each other properly for a month—but that month has cracked something open in me.

And that’s the scariest part of all.

“I’m tired,” I say. It’s not rejection, not really. It’s a shield I hope he can read through.

He just smiles a little. “That’s okay.”

“I don’t mean….” I pause, unsure how to explain that I want him close but am afraid to need it. “It’s just been a shit night.”

“I know.” He steps forward—just a fraction of space, but it’s enough to feel the warmth of his body. Close but not crowding. “So let me be there. Not to fix it. Just to… be.”

And fuck, there it is again. The way he gets me.

I want to kiss him. My body leans into the idea, but I don’t trust the dark corners of this car park. I don’t trust the shadows not to have eyes. So instead, I breathe out a shaky “Yeah. Okay.”

His eyes soften. “I’ll follow you home.”

I nod and unlock the car, but my mind’s a mess of static. I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the wheel, staring straight ahead for a few seconds before starting the engine.

What am I doing? Letting him in like this. Letting him see me when I’m stripped bare. No pitch to dominate, no game plan to follow. Just me. Tired. Uncertain. Wanting.

And wanting… isn’t something I let myself feel often.

But Brent? He makes me feel it all. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe tonight, letting him in is the only thing keeping me from closing the door again—not just on him, but on this possibility we’ve somehow built together.

So I pull out of the lot, glancing in the mirror to see his headlights right behind me.

Still following. Still choosing me.