Page 41 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Brent

Ten days. That’s how long it’s been since I kissed Camden goodbye at the hotel in Tallahassee and watched him disappear into the lobby to be with his team.

Ten days since I drove back to Savannah with my heart all out of rhythm, the phantom heat of his kiss still clinging to my mouth.

Ten days of mornings without him and evenings where the quiet of my flat stretches too wide, too hollow.

Which is ridiculous, really. I survived twenty-nine years without Camden Crawford in my life. But now? After weeks of having him in my bed, in my space, wrapped around me like he belonged there? Ten days feels like ten fucking months.

And the bastard’s having a good time.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s well earned. His second game in the States went brilliantly from everything I’ve heard.

His team won, the crowd was wild, and he even managed to dodge the press shitstorm that had been hounding him before.

The photos I’ve seen—sent by my mom, no less—show him sweaty, smiling, bruised, and surrounded by fans like a goddamn local hero.

Then came the panel.

Apparently, one of the guys in his group chat asked him along for a queer sports panel. Camden joined, got loud about visibility in pro sports, and my inbox exploded. Cosmo has not shut up about it.

“Why didn’t I get to be on the panel?” he grumbled the other day. “I have opinions. I’ve done stuff. Brent, tell your boyfriend he owes me a platform.”

“You’re still in diapers,” I replied. “You’ve got plenty of time to be loud and famous.”

“Ugh. You’re just bitter you’re missing it all.”

Okay, so maybe I was.

Back here in Exeter, life feels like it’s trudging forwards. The shop’s running fine—Carrie’s keeping the admin tight, and I’ve got a new apprentice coming in next week. Clients are happy. My sketchbook’s full.

And yet.

Camden’s not here.

He’s not hunched on my sofa, watching crap TV and pretending he’s not the world’s worst liar when I catch him staring. He’s not hogging the covers or kicking my calves in his sleep or sneaking kisses behind my ear like he’s not six foot two and made of granite.

So yeah. It kind of sucks.

The upside? One more game.

The final friendly is today—in Atlanta. It’s not televised, but I’ve got the stream booted up on my laptop, and my Wi-Fi has never been under more pressure.

My folks are there, so are the twins, and Cosmo managed to make it after wrapping up some training stuff early. They all met up with Cam beforehand.

Apparently, Pen was there too.

That particular bit of information had been dropped casually—too casually—by Camden when he called me twenty minutes ago from the locker room.

“You’re watching?”

“Obviously.”

“I’ll give you a sign.”

“What kind of sign?”

“A good one. You’ll know.”

Then, like it was an afterthought: “Oh, and Pen rocked up. Said he was in town and figured he’d stop by to take in the game.”

I’d groaned. Loudly.

“He’s just watching. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

Cam had laughed. “You’re so worried.”

“I’m not. Just… he’s a flirt.”

“He’s also not the guy I left pressed up against a hotel headboard ten days ago,” Cam said. “That was you. You win.”

Jesus.

The locker room noise had picked up, muffling whatever smartass thing I might’ve said next. Cam told me he had to go but promised to text after.

Now, I sit cross-legged on the couch, my coffee cold on the table, and my laptop perched on a stack of coasters as the match timer counts down. And then I see him. Camden runs out with the team, loose and powerful, his kit clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like sin.

He doesn’t look for the camera, but as they pan down the line-up, his fingers flash a quick sign—two taps over his heart, then a subtle salute.

Fucking hell. That’s for me.

I grin like a total idiot and reach for my mug.

The game kicks off, and it’s everything I hoped for. Exeter’s playing sharp, aggressive, fast. Camden’s dominant in the scrum, a fucking wall of force, and despite the friendly nature of the match, he’s not holding back.

My phone buzzes with a message from Cosmo.

Cosmo: Your boyfriend is terrifying. He just flattened a guy like a lawnmower.

Me: I taught him that.

Cosmo: Liar.

Me: Okay, fine. But I’ll take credit anyway.

I glance back at the screen, and for a moment, I just breathe. Camden’s out there. My boyfriend. My chaotic, sweet, brooding, secretly romantic boyfriend.

Yeah, the last ten days have been lonely. But watching him like this—seeing him shine, doing what he loves—it’s worth it.

Still, I can’t wait to have him back.

My phone buzzes again with a message from Cosmo a little while later.

Cosmo: Don’t freak out, but…

Fucking hell. If a sentence has ever been designed to induce an instant cardiac arrest, it’s that.

I click the attachment, and my gut twists.

It’s a photo—no, two. Both snapped outside the stadium, obviously pregame one.

A second message comes through. This time, it’s a link.

One of them shows Camden in his Exeter travel kit, laughing at something Pen says. Innocent enough—until you notice Pen’s arm slung around Cam’s shoulders like they’re best mates from way back.

The second photo? Pen’s hand is on Cam’s ass.

My boyfriend’s ass.

I inhale sharply, pulse rocketing. Not because I think Cam’s done anything wrong. I trust him. I do. But it’s not just the photos. It’s the text beneath them.

“Rugby’s most low-key out player seems to be making up for lost time. Is tighthead Camden Crawford sampling the American delights on tour? First spotted with a mystery man before departing the UK, now seen getting friendly with Jacksonville player Luke Penby. The Seagull flies free, it seems.”

My mouth goes dry. I barely process the rest—some rehashed bullshit about Cam’s coming out years ago, how he’s never discussed his dating life, a quote from some old coach about how Cam “leads with discipline.”

Fuck that. Fuck them. And fuck whatever bottom-feeding opportunist thinks it’s okay to speculate about someone’s sex life because they’re queer and happen to be in proximity to another man.

I blink at the screen, then drag my hand over my face. Cam’s going to be so pissed off. He hates this kind of attention. Loathes the spotlight unless it’s about the damn game. Which it never is, not really. Not with queer athletes. We’re either symbols or scandals. Never just… people.

I check the clock. Halftime.

Please, please, don’t let him have seen this.

If he’s smart—and he is—he won’t check his socials during the break. Still, I can’t stop the gnawing frustration curling in my gut. I head for the fridge and grab myself a beer. My crappy coffee is definitely not going to cut it.

I try to focus on the stream, but my chest won’t stop tightening. The second half’s starting now, and all I can think about is how fast the internet moves. How easily this shit spreads. There are already comments—tweets, quote tweets, tags.

Then another alert.

Different account.

Different headline.

“Meet Camden Crawford’s Mystery Man”

This one includes a blurry cropped photo of me and Cam—taken God knows when—walking down the street.

It must’ve been from one of those few days before we left for the States.

His hand is low on my back. My face is half shadowed, but someone’s put the pieces together, no doubt the asshole who stopped by the studio a few weeks back.

“American. Tattoo artist. Source claims his name is Brent Parkinson. Could Cam be collecting American conquests?”

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. Fucking hell. They’ve named me—well, kinda.

This is it. I’ve officially become the thing Cam wanted to avoid: a distraction.

Even if Cam doesn’t see it right away, someone on the team will. Or his coach. Or worse, one of the shitty tabloids back here, where they’ll clickbait the whole damn narrative.

God, I wish I was there right now. I want to be at the stadium, to see him walk off that field and into my arms so I can say, “I know this is a mess, but I’m here.”

But instead, I’m halfway across the fucking world, staring at my screen while his life gets picked apart by people who don’t know the first thing about him.

Another buzz.

Another headline.

I close the app before I can read it fully. Just seeing the name-drop of the guy who sold his story a few years back is enough to churn my gut.

Instead, I turn back to the match, forcing myself to focus. He’s out there playing. Still leading. Still driving his team forwards with every ounce of himself. His form’s tight, and he’s focused. But something in his shoulders looks tense now. His jaw’s locked up.

Has he seen it?

Maybe… maybe I’m spiralling.

I mean, it’s a couple of pictures. Gossip sites thrive on drama, yeah, but the attention span of the internet is measured in hours.

And honestly, maybe the whole “Cam gets around” headline won’t gain as much traction as I think.

Most people will forget it by morning. Maybe the media cycle will move on.

Still.

Cam won’t.

Even if it’s just a whisper, he’ll hear it like a scream. He’s private, guarded, and careful as hell about his reputation—and this? This isn’t just a footnote. It’s personal.

I sigh and swipe my palm down my face, pacing my small flat like it’ll help. The light from the laptop screen flickers as the commentators talk stats and substitutions, and I can’t help but bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Hold it together,” I mutter to myself. “He needs you steady. Not losing your shit.” But it’s easier said than done. Because Cam, he means too fucking much. And the second this game ends, he’s going to walk into a media storm. And I won’t be there to block the wind.

It’s less than forty-five minutes after the game that Cam calls me. I scramble for my phone so fast it nearly launches off the edge of the counter. “Cam?” I answer breathlessly, like I hadn’t been pacing the entire sitting room since the final whistle.

He doesn’t start with hello, just “Hey. You seen the bullshit?”