Page 39 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

The locker room smells like liniment, fresh sweat, and nerves.

I’m already half-dressed in my warm-up kit, pacing slow circuits between the benches, pretending I’m calm when my gut’s one wrong look from tying itself into a sailor’s knot.

Most of the lads are in their own pre-match routines—stretching, chatting low, some even joking—but my brain won’t switch off.

Because today isn’t just a friendly. Today, Brent’s family is here.

His parents are here .

And I feel like I’m about to be evaluated by the Board of Eternal Boyfriend Viability.

I scrub a hand down my face, exhaling slowly through my nose, and try to focus.

Jacksonville’s lads are already out on the pitch.

We’re next. I should be thinking about scrum formations and lineouts.

Instead, my brain’s shouting, Don’t trip in front of Jo and Lyn , like that’s somehow tactical advice.

I reach for my water bottle, distracted by a ping from my phone on the bench beside it.

Cosmo:

Hope you win today, future brother-in-law

I blink. “What the fuck?—”

Another message flashes up before I can process.

Cosmo:

Too soon? Too bad. Told the group chat.

Well. That explains the other notifications.

A chorus of pings pops up. My phone practically vibrates itself into a coma. I unlock it and see the explosion of chaos in the Love the Game group chat.

Jay:

Wait, WHAT? Cosmo. Did I miss an announcement? Is Camden Crawford DATING your brother??

Cosmo:

Bitch, please. Of course he is. They’re perfect. I knew it.

Jay:

When did this happen?

Cosmo:

Let’s just say I have great intuition and matchmaking skills that rival Oprah.

Ty:

Wait. Wait. You knew?? How?

Cosmo:

Psychic gay energy. Also, I might’ve introduced them without knowing they’d already met.

Jay:

Okay, but also—Cam, you in Jacksonville? There’s a panel next week. A queer athletes talk, part of the sports inclusion series. If you’re still around, you should be on it.

Cosmo:

WHAT. WHY DIDN’T YOU ASK ME, JAY?

Jay:

You’re not the international rugby heartthrob, Cosmo. Chill.

Cosmo:

That’s some sort of discrimination. I’m just not sure what.

I snort—actually snort—and sink onto the bench, the weight of nerves briefly replaced by pure hilarity.

“Everything okay?” Rafi asks, nodding at my phone.

I glance up and nod. “Just Cosmo being… Cosmo.” He’s one of the few people in the group I mention by name—I’m not willing to break anyone’s trust.

“You mean Brent’s brother? The one from the banana team?”

“Banana Ball,” I correct, because apparently I care about the details now. “But no, that’s his other brother—actually brothers… the twins. This is the one who plays college hockey.”

A small chorus of chuckles rises from the other side of the room. One of the backs calls out, “Tell one of the twins we’re still waiting on our signed banana bats.”

“Pretty sure that’s a euphemism,” someone else mutters.

I shake my head and tuck the phone away. Focus, Crawford.

But then again, maybe letting myself feel something before a match—nerves and all—isn’t such a bad thing. Especially when it’s about Brent.

He’s up in the stands somewhere. And even though I didn’t ask, I know exactly where he’ll be sitting—row F, section 208, probably bouncing his leg, trying to act chill for his parents and sister.

I can already picture him, one arm slung across the back of the seat, eyes tracking me from the moment I step out onto the field.

And yeah, okay—maybe I like that.

I’ve been in front of bigger crowds than this. Played on bigger stages. But none of that compares to knowing Brent will be watching.

He saw me go watery-eyed over mashed potatoes a few nights ago because his mum said she was proud of me for “making her boy so happy.”

She meant it. I saw it in her eyes. And it fucking floored me.

“All right, lads,” Coach calls, pulling us all into a huddle. “Five minutes.”

I zone in, eyes sharp, body twitching to move. There’s still time before kick-off, but my brain finally quiets the outside noise—Brent’s family, Cosmo’s declarations, Jay’s surprise panel invite—and drops into focus.

Until I get another ping. Brent this time.

Brent: FYI, Cosmo asked permission to claim you as family. I said yes. I figured you’d be flattered. Or terrified. Maybe both.

I grin as I type back:

Me: Terrified. Definitely. Flattered… yeah.

Another ping follows.

Brent: You’ve got this, Captain. We’re proud of you.

And just like that, the nerves settle into something more solid. I tuck the phone away, stand, and nod towards the tunnel. Just before we leave, my phone buzzes in my boot bag one last time.

Jay:

We’re finalizing the panel for Thursday. You in? Would love your voice on it.

I chew the inside of my cheek. It’s not the time to decide. But maybe, just maybe, this trip’s about more than rugby. Maybe it’s about showing up—in more ways than one.

I’ll have a think and let him know after the game. I head on out with my team.

Outside, the crowd hums with energy. It’s not a packed house, but the vibe is good—lots of families, a decent local turnout, banners for both sides. The sun’s high, the heat brutal. The American flag flaps lazily on the sideline.

We jog out to warm-ups, and I glance towards the stands, spotting Brent instantly. Of course I do.

He’s standing beside his parents, sunglasses low on his nose, a smirk on his lips. He clocks me and gives a casual little wave. His dad does too. Rachel nudges him, whispering something, and Brent blushes.

I want to die and also kiss him stupid.

Focus, I tell myself again.

But even as we run drills and prep for the match, I keep checking that row. And every time I do, he’s watching. Even when I fumble a catch during warm-up. Even when my water bottle spills down my front. Even when I nearly trip on the sideline marker.

He doesn’t laugh. Not really. But I feel the grin from here.

Kick-off approaches. The ref checks in. Line-ups are confirmed.

I adjust my gum shield, nod to the lads, and take my place on the field. Brent’s out there watching. It’s time to give him something worth seeing.

The Florida heat isn’t exactly subtle.

By the time the second half kicks off, I’m already half melted inside my boots, and the back of my neck feels like it’s baking under the afternoon sun.

Still—there’s energy in the air. A kind of buzz that’s different from a regular league match.

It’s not do-or-die like the Premiership fixtures back home, but the stakes are still there.

This tour’s about outreach. Visibility. Building bridges between the UK rugby scene and the slowly growing sport on American soil. Which means we’re not just here to win. We’re here to impress.

And impressing is a lot harder to do when your boyfriend’s parents are watching you from the shaded stands and your entire lower back is soaked in sweat.

Brilliant.

The Jacksonville team’s solid—rough around the edges, maybe not as tight on formation, but quick and agile. They’re hungry in that way teams with something to prove always are. They’re giving us a proper game, and I respect the hell out of them for that.

Well—most of them.

There’s one player in particular—a back, I think, maybe a centre—who keeps turning his charm up to eleven every time we cross paths. Dark hair, white gumshield, a smile that’s probably broken a thousand hearts.

When we shook hands at the pre-match dinner last night, he’d introduced himself as Pen, thrown me a wink, and said something about liking “a man who leads from the front.” I thought he was joking.

He’s not.

Every time we get into a scrum, or pass within arm’s reach, or even lock eyes from across the pitch, he shoots me this grin. Like we’re sharing some private joke. Like we’ve already got history.

It’s… disarming.

Not because I’m interested—because I’m very much not—but because it’s the kind of attention I’m used to getting from the press or fans. Not from someone in boots and headgear who’s meant to be focusing on the bloody game.

At one point, he actually winks at me mid-tackle.

A fucking wink .

I blink at him, stunned enough to hesitate half a beat before rejoining the ruck. “Focus,” I mutter under my breath, trying to drown out the weird tension building at the base of my skull. I’m a professional. I have a job to do.

Still.

After the next play, I jog over to the wing for a breather and glance at the stands, searching for a distraction—and find it instantly.

Brent.

He’s standing, water bottle in hand, sunglasses shoved up in his curls, his shirt sticking to his chest from the heat. He’s smiling—properly smiling—and it’s aimed at me. It hits like a cold shower and a jolt of caffeine all in one.

I know that smile. It’s not about the game. It’s for me.

My chest eases, and when the whistle blows for the restart, I’m already rolling my shoulders and settling back into formation, mind cleared, focus sharp.

Screw Pen and his grin. I’ve already got everything I need.

We pull out a win by five points. It’s not a slaughter, but not nothing either. The final whistle goes, and the whole pitch erupts into applause and claps on the back. The US team’s still in high spirits, even after the loss, which only makes me like them more.

As we shake hands again, Pen shoots me one last smile. “If the captaincy doesn’t work out,” he says, “you’ve got a backup career in charming the pants off the opposition.”

I blink. “You winked at me mid-tackle.”

“I was giving you a compliment.” He grins.

I laugh, a little incredulous. “That’s not how this works.”

“Isn’t it?” He winks again, then pats me on the shoulder and walks off, still grinning.

I shake my head and jog off the field, muttering, “Bloody Americans.”

By the time I reach the tunnel, Brent’s waiting—cool bottle of water extended like a gift from the gods, and his All Access pass hanging around his neck. “How do you feel?” he asks as I take a long drink.

“Sweaty. Exhausted.” I grin. “Victorious.”

He tilts his head. “And marginally flirted with?”