Page 28 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

The sky’s threatening rain as we exit the stadium, that sticky-grey kind of afternoon where the clouds feel too close, pressing down on everything.

Lachie’s beside me, muttering something about the footage we just watched, but I’m not really listening.

My brain’s still spinning with every fumble, every missed opportunity—and yeah, every comment Coach made with that strained I’m-not-blaming-you-but tone.

I tug my mobile out, my brows pulling low when I see missed calls and a couple of text messages. My phone’s been on silent, and I know better than to check it during game tape replays. I thumb over the screen. It’s Brent.

Brent: Hey. Tried to call. Please call me when you can.

Another one right beneath it:

Brent: Just a heads-up, someone came by the shop asking questions. About you. About us. I told him to fuck off, but I think he might be press. He dropped your name.

I stop walking, and my stomach clenches—tight and cold. Fucking hell. I stand there alone, clouds thick overhead, thumb hovering over Brent’s name.

“Cam?” Lachie calls out to me. When we make eye contact, his whole body shifts. “Something wrong?”

I shake my head once, shallow. “Just… give me a minute.”

He nods and doesn’t push, just keeps going towards the cars. I lower my phone, jaw tight, heart hammering hard enough to make my ribs ache.

I’m pissed.

Not at Brent. Not even close. At the situation.

At the press. At whoever the hell that bastard was walking into Brent’s studio, sniffing around like it was his right.

Brent doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve being put in the crosshairs because of me.

Because we’re… whatever this is. And I sure as hell don’t want him regretting it.

The thought makes something raw crack open in my chest.

I look down at the phone again, debating what to say. What to do. I don’t know if this is the beginning of something getting worse—or if it’s the moment when I finally have to decide how far I’m willing to go to protect this thing we’ve barely begun.

But one thing’s clear: This isn’t Brent’s fault, and I won’t let him carry it like it is.

I hit Call before I can second-guess it, taking the final few steps towards my car. The phone barely rings once before Brent picks up.

“Cam?” His voice is tight. Worried. “Fuck. Thank you for calling. Are you okay?”

The squeeze in my gut intensifies. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie. Sort of. I’m angry. Frustrated. Tired. But not at him.

He exhales, the sound thick with relief. “I didn’t want to text too much in case you hadn’t seen it yet. I just… when he said your name?—”

“Yeah,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “I read it.”

“I swear, I didn’t invite that guy in. I thought he was just interested in the studio. He was… friendly, at first. Curious. I should’ve caught on sooner.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

Silence on the other end. Then, cautiously, he says, “You’re not?”

“No.” I let out a breath and lean against the car. “I’m pissed off, yeah. But not at you. You didn’t put my name in his mouth. You didn’t send him.”

Brent’s quiet for a beat. I hear the faint rustle of movement on his end—maybe him sitting down, or pacing.

“I just didn’t want you to be blindsided,” he says finally, voice softer. “I know how much privacy means to you.”

I close my eyes. That. Right there. That’s what makes all this harder.

“I don’t even know what I’m more angry about,” I mutter. “That the guy came sniffing, or that I let myself think maybe… maybe we’d get away with it. That I could have something for myself without it being turned into a fucking headline.”

Brent doesn’t say anything at first. When he does, it’s careful. “You still can. Have something, I mean.”

I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Can I?”

“I think so.” His voice is steady now. “But I won’t pretend it’s going to be easy. If you want me to back off?—”

“No.” My answer is instant. Too fast. Too raw. I bite down on the next breath. “I don’t want that.”

There’s a pause.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” I open my eyes and stare up at the grey sky. “I don’t want to give them another piece of me. But you? You’re not the problem. You’re the thing that’s made the last few weeks… better.”

Brent’s inhale is sharp. “Cam….”

“I’m not saying I’m ready to do interviews or hold your hand on a red carpet,” I add quickly. “But I’m not walking away.”

There’s a sound I can’t quite name—a cross between a sigh and a quiet, relieved laugh.

“Good,” Brent murmurs. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

After letting him know I’ll stop by later and saying goodbye, I tuck my phone back into my pocket but feel every word from Brent like it’s been etched into my ribs.

“What’s going on?” Lachie’s still watching me—not nosy, just genuinely concerned.

I exhale hard, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “Just spoke to Brent. Some dickhead showed up at his shop asking questions. About me. Us.”

Lachie’s eyebrows lift. “Press?”

“Probably.” I kick a pebble with the side of my boot, sending it skittering across the asphalt. “Said he told him to piss off. But still.”

There’s a silence as I open the back door and throw my folder on the seat. The tension hangs between us, and then Lachie bobs his head.

“Look, I know you’re spun out, but…” He hesitates, and I brace. “Do you think it’s true? What they said in the press?”

My gut twists. “About what?”

“You being distracted. Slipping. Not hungry enough.” He pauses. “Since meeting him.”

I stop walking. “We’re not dating,” I snap, too fast, too sharp.

Lachie blinks at me once, then snorts. “Sure you’re not.”

I glare at him, but he just throws me a look like I’m the idiot in this conversation. Because I probably am.

He shrugs. “Look, I’m not here to judge. But I’ve known you a long time, and yeah, yesterday wasn’t your best performance—but it wasn’t anyone’s. We’ve all been off. The loss wasn’t on you.”

I nod slowly. My mouth is dry, the pressure in my chest mounting. “I just… I can’t afford for them to be right.”

“About what?”

“That I’ve lost my edge. That I’m soft now. That I can’t lead this team.”

“Mate.” Lachie shakes his head. “You’ve led this team through worse. Through season slumps, injuries, new signings, losing half the backline to international duty. One average match doesn’t erase that.”

I stare at him.

“And Brent?” he goes on. “He make you happy?”

The answer’s there before I can even think. “Yeah. He does.”

“Then you’ve got to trust that. Trust yourself. You’ve never been one to check out mentally just because you’ve got something good going off the pitch. And if you are happier? Lighter?” He smirks. “Maybe that’s a bloody good thing.”

I let out a breath. “I do still want to be here. Want to play. Train. Lead. I like the way Brent makes me feel—like I can breathe—but it doesn’t make me want this any less.”

Lachie nods. “Then maybe it’s not a distraction. Maybe it’s just new. And yeah, the media might sniff around, but you’ve got us. You’ve got this team. We’re not bailing.”

Something in me steadies.

He claps me on the shoulder. “Just don’t let the bastards win. On or off the pitch.” He winks at me and backs away to his Range Rover.

The air doesn’t feel quite so suffocating. My mind’s still racing, sure, but beneath it all is something calmer. Not just guilt or nerves, but hope, and that’s something worth holding on to.

By the time I get to Brent’s, the storm inside me has finally quieted.

I’ve already been home. I walked into my flat, and the first thing I noticed was the faint scent of him still clinging to my sheets—soap and spice and whatever he uses in his hair.

It hit me like a punch to the chest. Not in a bad way, just…

grounding. I’d stood there in the middle of the room for a minute longer than necessary, letting it settle. Letting him settle.

Then I cleaned. Nothing big—just tidied a few things, folded some laundry, wiped down the kitchen counters. Domestic shit. But it helped. Something about the rhythm of it is therapeutic. Something about the order.

I spoke to Mum too. Told her I was fine.

We didn’t talk long—just enough for her to hear my voice and for me to hear hers.

It reminded me who I am. Where I come from.

What I’ve already coped with. A couple of shit headlines and a nosy stranger?

That’s not enough to knock me over. So yeah, I’m more composed now.

And when Brent opens the door, looking like he’s caught between greeting me and bracing for a punch, that steadiness doesn’t falter.

He’s tense, jaw set, eyes flicking over my shoulder like he’s making sure no one’s followed me. He steps back almost immediately, staying behind the door—keeping himself hidden from the street view.

My chest tugs. He’s protecting me. That’s what this is.

“I’ve been checking socials,” he says quickly, voice low and tight. “Nothing’s come up. Not yet. But if it does—if that guy sells something or twists it?—”

“Brent,” I say, and I don’t mean to cut him off, but I do.

His mouth clamps shut, like he’s preparing to be told off or brushed off. So I do the only thing I can think of. I step forwards, grab his face in both hands, and kiss him.

No words. No warning. Just lips and breath and the warm press of him against me.

He stills for half a second—just one heartbeat—and then melts into it. His hands find my hips, holding me like I might disappear, and the kiss shifts, grows, deepens. It’s not frantic or heated. It’s not about sex.

It’s about grounding.

About him.

About me.

About us.

I pull back, just a little, our foreheads brushing. He’s breathing hard. So am I. But his eyes are soft now. Open.

“I’m okay,” I tell him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against the side of my thumb.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say again. “I’m here because I want to be.”

He nods, slow and uncertain, like he doesn’t quite trust it. But I do.