Page 7 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

“You always interrogate strangers in bars?” I ask, raising my pint.

“Only the ones who might be spending time with my BFF,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta make sure you’re a good guy. We’ve got a vetting process.”

That actually lands softer. He’s still full of humour, but there’s something warm under it that’s loyal, protective.

I glance at Camden again, more out of instinct than anything, and find him looking not at me but at Lachie—with that sort of long-suffering fondness that says I’m going to kill you in your sleep, but I’ll still cook you breakfast in the morning.

I snort. “So, this is the interview, huh? Should I have brought references?”

“If you’ve got a glowing review from your mum, I’ll accept it.”

“Tragically, she thinks I’m a delight.”

Camden shifts beside me—finally—and says drily, “Ignore him. He thinks he’s subtle.”

Lachie clutches his chest. “That hurts.”

“Good.”

Before Lachie can go full inquisition again, Camden says, his voice low but clear, “All right.” He steps in with a tone that walks the line between exasperated and dry amusement. “That’s enough interrogation for one night.”

“Oh, come on?—”

“I’ll buy you a pint,” Camden cuts in, turning to me. “To apologise for him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Apologise or escape?”

“Bit of both.”

I grin. “Tempting.”

He gives me a look that dares me not to follow, and when he turns, his hand brushes the small of my back—barely a touch, just enough pressure to guide me through the crowd, but hell, my brain short-circuits.

Camden’s hand is big and warm and right there, and I don’t care how packed this bar is, I’m pretty sure I could float to the other side of the room.

I keep walking, trying very hard not to think about the fact that my jeans are now about thirty seconds away from being classified as a health hazard.

Christ. I need to focus, but it’s not easy. Not when the gruff rugby captain with thunder in his laugh and bruises under his shirt just hauled me out of a conversation and laid a claim with nothing more than a half-smile and a hand at my back.

Camden moves to my side as the crowd thins while we weave towards the bar. “Lachie means well. He just thinks every conversation is a contact sport.”

I snort. “So… rugby, but in words?”

“Exactly.”

And God help me, I like this man more with every step.

Camden doesn’t say another word as he threads through the crowd.

He just keeps that steady hand at the small of my back until we reach the bar.

He orders without looking at me, like this is just another part of his job as captain—ensure the newcomer isn’t traumatised by Lachie’s enthusiasm, provide alcohol, return to strategic silence.

But when he turns and hands me the pint, his fingers brush mine—brief, accidental maybe, but definitely not missed.

I follow him without a word, and he leads me towards a quieter spot near the back—half tucked behind a pillar, one of those tables that’s slightly too small and too round to be comfortable. But right now, it feels like the only bubble of calm in the whole damn pub.

He slides into the bench seat and nods for me to take the opposite side.

No fuss. No small talk. Just him, quiet, watching.

I let the silence sit for a few beats as I take a sip, then lean my forearms on the table. “You always let Lachie do your PR?”

He snorts. “Can’t stop him.”

“I like him,” I say. “He’s a menace. But the good kind.”

Camden grunts. That might be agreement.

I smile, unbothered. I’m not here to crack him open or dig too deep. But I am here. And he did lead me here. That has to mean something.

The quiet stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable—not for me anyway. He’s got that rare kind of presence, the kind that doesn’t need to fill every silence with words. Still, I need to steer us towards safer ground.

“So,” I say, “the sketches… you said they were close to what you had in mind. Want to talk specifics?”

He nods slowly. “The second one—more of that. Cleaner lines. Bit more structure through the elbow.”

My eyebrows lift, impressed. “You know exactly what you’re after.”

“Had time to think it through.”

“That helps.” I pause, then tilt my head. “And you’ve got a good eye. Most people don’t catch structural flow through the joints unless they’ve done a few themselves or stared at too many bad tattoos.”

His mouth quirks—barely, but it’s there. “I’ve seen enough to know what I don’t want.”

“That’s half the battle.”

He nods again, sips his beer, and I take the opportunity to just watch him.

His beard is neatly trimmed, not a speck out of place, and he’s changed out of his kit—clean and put together in a way that still somehow feels effortless.

There’s something about the way he sits, like he’s always ready to move—solid, firm, coiled quiet.

His knuckles are rough, bruised. There’s a tension in his shoulders that never really leaves.

And then there’s that voice —low, gravelly, threaded with that deep West Midlands drawl that I definitely shouldn’t be this into.

“So, you’re from the Midlands?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just outside Wolverhampton.”

“I still haven’t made it up that way,” I admit, leaning back. “London, Brighton, bits of Devon now—but I’ve yet to venture further north. One day.”

He huffs, not quite a laugh. “Depends what you’re after. If you like post-industrial towns with a half-decent curry and endless rain, it’s a dream.”

I grin. “Sounds like home, honestly. Just swap rain for snow and add one loud hockey rink.”

That gets a flicker of something—amusement, maybe. Recognition. It’s always subtle with him, but it’s there if you’re watching.

The conversation winds on in gentle turns, nothing too deep, but enough to give me flickers—glimpses—of the man behind the press photos and the guarded looks.

Camden’s still clipped with his words, still watching me like he’s measuring out trust by the ounce, but there’s warmth under the surface.

A dry wit that slips out in tiny, unexpected sparks.

We talk about the differences between Devon and the Midlands, about his mum’s obsession with feeding people, and about how his sister once threatened to break his nose for stealing the last custard tart at Christmas.

He tells me all of this in the same deadpan tone, like it’s barely worth sharing, and yet each piece feels like a little stone passed across the table. Carefully placed. Quietly offered.

I’m just about to tell him about the time I accidentally tattooed a mirrored symbol on a guy’s ribs—his fault for holding the reference sheet upside down—when a pair of voices stumble into our quiet space.

“Camden! Mate, hell of a game!”

We both turn as two guys, who are probably in their mid-twenties with pints in hand and clearly a few deep, wobble over to our table. One’s got a club scarf half hanging off his neck; the other’s already half spilling his beer.

Camden shifts, subtly but instantly. His shoulders stiffen just enough for me to notice. His pint stays on the table, untouched, but his posture changes. Alert. Ready.

He gives them a small nod, smile tight. “Cheers.”

“Thought you were gonna break that guy’s ribs in the first scrum,” the scarf guy says with a laugh, clearly unaware of the tension on Camden’s shoulders.

Camden’s smile doesn’t move. “No need. Ref handled it.”

They linger for a moment too long, and I feel something twist low in my stomach. Not fear, not exactly—but something protective, a flicker of frustration on his behalf. This isn’t hostile. But it’s intrusive. Like watching someone push past a boundary they can’t see.

Camden stays calm and still.

“Appreciate you coming by, lads,” he says when the drunker of the two starts trying to replicate a huddle, “but I’m catching up with someone.”

A beat.

Another.

Then scarf guy claps the table once. “Right’o. Cheers, mate. Good luck next game.” They shuffle off without fuss, back into the crowd.

Camden exhales through his nose, and when he looks at me, there’s the faintest flash of apology.

I tilt my head. “That happen a lot?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. Less now.”

I glance back at the booth where a few of his teammates are still sat, mostly unnoticed. “I’m honestly amazed there are so many of you just… hanging out here.”

“It’s our local,” he says simply. “Unwritten rule not to hassle the players. Most people stick to it.”

“And when they don’t?”

He lifts one shoulder again. “They get bored when we’re not dramatic.”

I sip my pint, watching him over the rim. “You handled it well.”

His mouth twitches. “You expecting a headbutt?”

“No,” I say, grinning. “Well, maybe from Lachie.”

That gets me a proper snort. It’s short-lived, but it’s real.

I told myself this move to Exeter was about work.

About carving out a quieter, more stable kind of life.

But the truth? I’ve been restless. Something in me has been waiting—for what, I’m not sure.

Maybe for a reason to stay in this country beyond just liking the people, the pace, the grey skies that made ink colours pop.

I miss my family, yeah. But I want to build something that’s mine.

And maybe, finally, I’m closer than I thought.

The mood settles again, if not a little quieter. I study him for a moment—his steady hands, his careful posture, the way he always seems like he’s bracing for something, even in stillness.

He’s used to being on. Always on display, always prepared. But now? Here? He’s just Camden.

And I like him.

Probably more than I should.