Page 31 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

His chest stutters with another laugh. “You know that doesn’t help, right?”

“Still felt like the mature thing to say.” I press a kiss to his shoulder. “Even though I absolutely am hard. It’s a biological rebellion.”

He squeezes the arm I have wrapped around his waist, his thumb brushing the underside of my wrist. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “I like this.”

That this isn’t about sex makes my heart pull tight.

I don’t say anything for a bit—I just hold him.

I’ve always been a snuggler. Don’t let the tattoos or the lip ring fool you—I’m a touch-deprived softie with a cling complex.

And this? Holding him like this? Feeling him relax into me, hearing the way his breathing slows?

Yeah. I’m fucked.

He shuffles back just a little, nestling deeper into the cradle of my body, and I nearly lose my mind with how sweet the gesture is.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a while, voice barely above a whisper.

I rest my cheek against his shoulder blade. “Me too.”

And I mean it. All of it. Every complicated, terrifying, amazing bit.

The room goes quiet again, nothing but the soft hum of the night outside and the occasional creak of the floorboards as the house settles around us. I feel him start to drift, the weight of sleep tugging him under. I don’t follow right away.

I stay awake a little longer, just breathing him in. Anchoring myself in the steady rhythm of his body. Because right now—wrapped around the man who makes me feel like more than I’ve ever let myself hope for—I don’t want to sleep.

I just want to feel this.

And hold on.

It’s the second half, and the Seagulls are down.

The crowd at Exeter’s home ground is loud, tense, and vibrating with anticipation that feels more like dread. I’ve been to games before—watched them live and on-screen—but nothing compares to this. To watching him.

Camden Crawford is in the thick of it. He’s a fucking wall—tighthead, set in the scrum like he’s born for it. The way he braces and drives, the way his legs and shoulders align like a machine, it’s a thing of beauty. Controlled aggression. Power in motion. It should be poetry.

But today, there’s a crack in the rhythm. A strain just beneath the surface. And I feel it in my chest.

Wolverhampton is all teeth and precision. They’re playing fast, hard, mean. And they’ve got more than momentum on their side—they’ve got the lead. It’s only by a few points, but in a match like this, a few points might as well be a cliff’s edge.

I flinch as another tackle smashes down near the sideline. Cam’s already back on his feet, barking orders, hauling a teammate upright by the shirt. His voice doesn’t carry this far, but I can see it in his posture—pure command. But there’s a stiffness to his movements, something wound too tight.

Then it happens.

The pass is fast, the kind of whip-quick throw you only risk when the pressure’s mounting. Cam’s already pivoting—he sees the opening—but the ball goes wide.

Lachie’s the one who takes it. He’s out on the wing, faster than he looks, already sidestepping when?—

Crack.

It’s the kind of sound that stills a crowd. A clean, brutal tackle—but too high, too late. Lachie’s legs scissor mid-air before he slams into the turf.

And he doesn’t get up.

The moment stretches, unnaturally so. Players start to crowd, trainers rush from the sidelines. The ref’s whistle is piercing, but all I can see is Cam.

He stops dead.

Then explodes.

Cam’s across the field in seconds. He’s screaming—I can’t hear him, but the fury is in every part of his body. It takes three teammates to hold him back from going after the player who hit Lachie. The guy’s already getting a red card, walking off to jeers, but it’s not enough. Not for Cam.

Not when it’s his best mate lying on the pitch, quiet and still.

The stadium has dropped into a strange silence, that holding-your-breath kind of tension. Lachie still hasn’t moved. The medics are kneeling beside him now, and I catch the flash of a stretcher coming onto the field.

I don’t even realise I’m standing until someone next to me gasps.

Cam’s still fuming, his fists clenching at his sides, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a sprint uphill. His teammates are talking to him—one of the flankers with a hand on his shoulder—but he doesn’t even look away from Lachie until they lift him carefully onto the stretcher.

My heart’s thudding so hard it aches, because I know that look on Cam’s face. It’s not just rage. It’s fear.

Fuck. I have no idea what to do. They just play on, right, even though a player’s been taken off? I have zero clue. All I know is that I like Lachie, and he’s clearly seriously injured. Then there’s Cam, who looks ready to tear off someone’s head.

As far as I’m aware, Lachie isn’t married or dating, but maybe he has family here who are looking out for him. Even if I leave my seat, it’s not like I’m going to get any information. I’m nobody to Lachie. It doesn’t matter that I want to be there for him since his best friend can’t be.

Indecision wars inside me. The game’s yet to restart, and while fans around me have started to take their seats, I remain standing, staring at Cam.

Around me, people are murmuring in confusion, some loudly voicing their opinions.

“Definitely deserves the red, that. Disgusting hit?—”

“Was clean. Just bad luck, mate. Happens.”

“Did you see his leg? That angle wasn’t natural.”

The woman next to me grips her partner’s arm, whispering, “He’s not moving much, is he?”

My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I swallow past the dry lump in my throat and stay standing even though most fans are sitting again.

The match hasn’t resumed, but players are slowly drifting back into position.

Officials are speaking quietly near the sidelines.

Cam’s crouched beside Lachie’s stretcher now, a hand pressed to his friend’s shoulder. The medics are speaking low and fast.

And then Cam’s eyes find mine. The roar of the stadium dulls. He doesn’t say anything, mouth anything. He doesn’t have to. His expression is pinched with frustration, worry, barely leashed fury—and something else.

A silent ask.

He wants me to check on Lachie. Because he can’t.

I nod once, sharp and sure, and start clumsily making my way out of the aisle.

“’Scuse me. Sorry. Sorry.” I shuffle past knees and beers and whispered questions, then hit the steps.

I don’t run, but I walk fast, heart thundering in my chest. By the time I reach the edge of the seating area, I see Cam talking to someone just beyond the sideline rope—an assistant coach maybe, or med staff.

He’s already setting things in motion, even while the ref confers with a guy in a blazer holding a clipboard.

I scan the stadium interior for signs. Somewhere, there has to be access to the team zones. I spot a steel security door marked with STAFF ONLY above it and jog that way. My boots thud against the concrete. My palms are sweaty.

Two security guards stand at the entrance, one on either side, earpieces in, built like fridges.

Shit.

I approach the guy on the left. He’s mid-forties and tough-looking. He doesn’t blink as I slow down.

“I need to get through,” I say, trying to keep my tone even but urgent. “I’m, uh… I’m Lachie’s brother.”

His brow lifts. “You are?”

Shit. Come on, Brent. Think. “Half-brother,” I say. “Different dads. He took Mum’s last name.”

He squints at me. “You American?”

“Yeah. Long story.” I push a hand through my hair, trying to look distressed. “Look, please. I’m only here for a bit. I just need to make sure he’s okay. He’s all I’ve got over here.”

The guard doesn’t soften.

“You’ve got ID?”

“Not with his name on it,” I say, too quickly. “Please?—”

“Sorry, mate. No one through without clearance.”

I stare at him, mouth parting, but I already know I’m not getting past. My shoulders sag. I glance around, trying to recalibrate, think of another lie that could work, or better yet, someone I could text. Cam’s the only name that comes to mind.

“Okay,” I mutter, already backing away, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Thanks anyway.”

The man nods once, already watching the next approaching body behind me. I retreat to the corner of the corridor and pull out my phone, cursing under my breath. My heart’s hammering. I tap out a message to Cam—short, direct.

Me: Blocked at the entrance. Told them I was Lachie’s brother. Didn’t fly.

I hesitate, then add:

Me: Let me know if I can try anything else. Just want to make sure he’s okay.

Phone gripped in my hand, I glance back at the security door. There has to be a better way.

Obviously, I know Cam can’t respond. He’s on the pitch.

Focused. Doing what he does best—what he has to do.

Still, I had to let him know I tried. That I’d be there if I could.

I tuck my phone back into my jacket pocket and exhale hard, already scanning for another angle—literally and metaphorically.

That’s when the ridiculous idea hits me.

What if I pretend to faint? Maybe hyperventilate? Something that’ll get security flustered enough to leave a gap I can bolt through. I’m already mentally rehearsing how dramatic I’ll need to be when the heavy door creaks open behind the guard.

A woman in an Exeter Seagulls tracksuit steps out. She’s mid-thirties maybe, quick on her feet, purposeful in her movements. Her eyes land on me like she’s been searching. “Brent?” she asks, already reaching into her pocket.

“Yeah.” I nod fast, hope flaring in my chest like someone just cracked a window open.

“Come with me.” She hands over a lanyard with a plastic pass. It reads: TEMP ACCESS: MEDICAL STAFF. The guard doesn’t even blink, just steps aside like I suddenly belong.

“I’m Ellie,” she says. “One of the physios. Camden sent for you.”

The relief whooshes out of me so fast I nearly stumble. “He did?”

She gives a tight nod. “Asked that I collect you to support Lachie.”

I follow her down a narrow corridor without question, legs already moving before I’ve caught up with my thoughts. “Shit, is it bad?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Ellie doesn’t answer right away.

“Someone in the crowd mentioned his leg,” I push gently, unable to help it.

She shakes her head. “There’s nothing wrong with his leg.”

That surprises me. “Then…?”

“He blacked out,” she says bluntly. “Hit the ground hard. Breathing’s stable now, but he wasn’t responsive at first.”

My stomach flips.

“They’re putting him in the ambulance. Cam wants you there until we can get his emergency contact here.”

“Who’s that?”

“His brother. Lives in Manchester. He’s on his way, but it’ll take a few hours.”

I glance sideways at her. “Can I ride with him?”

Ellie’s mouth lifts slightly, a bit of warmth breaking through the professional facade. “Cam refused to play on unless Coach Pritchard promised to get you in the ambulance with Lachie.”

My heart does a weird twist at that. “He what?”

“He nearly clocked one of the Wolverhampton locks when they kept chirping during the delay. Coach had to pull him aside. Told him he needed to keep his head. Cam said—and I quote—‘Not unless Brent gets in that ambulance.’”

I blink hard, throat tight.

“Coach relented. So… here you are.”

“Right,” I say quietly. “Okay.”

We round a final corner, and suddenly we’re at an exit. The corridor bursts into motion—sharp with urgency. The back doors of an ambulance hang open, and a paramedic is adjusting the stretcher’s locks.

Lachie’s already inside, unconscious or just groggy, it’s hard to tell. He looks pale, face slightly drawn. A white band is around his wrist. I step up just as Ellie gives the paramedic a nod.

Another man stands at the side of the ambulance, also in Exeter kit. Stocky, greying at the temples, concern etched deep on his face.

“This is Brent,” Ellie tells him. “Cam’s approved him to ride along.”

The man gives me a nod of recognition. “Pritchard,” he says. “Head coach. You’ve got a calm head?”

“I’ve got a steady one,” I say, stepping into the ambulance without needing to be asked twice. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” He claps the side of the van once. “Take this and text me with updates.” He passes me a card, which reveals a cell number.

I nod as the paramedics keep moving around me. One gives me a sanitising wipe and some instructions about staying out of the way. I settle on the bench beside Lachie and grip the side rail as the ambulance jolts to life.

I glance down at the man beside me—Cam’s best friend, unconscious, hurt, and probably scaring the shit out of the whole team. I don’t know him well, but I know this: If it were Cam on this stretcher, I’d want someone beside him. Someone calm. Someone who gave a shit.

So I lean forwards, rest my forearms on my knees, and say softly, “All right, Lachie. You’ve scared the hell out of everyone. Time to wake up and start with your inappropriate questions.”

His chest rises and falls steadily.

That’ll do for now.