Page 1 of Full Tilt
1
Camden
My legs shake,my core screams at me, while my neck’s so taut I feel the strain in places I didn’t know could cramp. One more set and I can cool off, collapse, and—if the rugby gods are kind—crawl into bed tonight with my dignity mostly intact.
“Come on, Crawford. Five more.” Joyce bobs his head, watching me like a hawk.
I grunt something that might be agreement—or a death rattle—and hold the neck bridge. It feels like my skull’s about to launch off my spine and roll into the squat rack, but I grit my teeth, knowing I can’t get away with not completing today’s training.
“Four more,” Joyce says, cheerfully ignoring my slow descent into rigor mortis. The strength trainer stays by my side, counting down like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The man’s basically a walking slab of optimism in trackies.
By the time we’re on the last hold, every muscle in my neck and core is singing the national anthem of pain.
“That’s it. Hold.”
The vein in my temple pulses. Maybe it’ll burst and take me out of training early.
“And done.”
“Fuck.” My back hits the floor with the grace of a sack of potatoes, arms splayed out. I should stretch, but I might need a priest first. Or a forklift.
Joyce chuckles. “You’re dramatic today.”
“Today?” I mutter, still trying to locate my soul somewhere near my spine. “You say that like I’m not always two reps from a full existential collapse.”
He snorts. “You love it. You just hate admitting it.”
I give him a slow blink. “That’s not true. I hate it, and I will never admit to anything.”
There’s a familiar shuffle behind me before someone nudges my side with the toe of their trainer. I don’t have to look.
“You dead, Cap?” Lachie, our hooker, my best mate, and resident pain in my arse peers down at me. “You look like roadkill someone politely dragged off the A38.”
I lift one arm and flip him the finger. “Just visualising what peace might feel like.”
Lachie drops down beside me and offers a bottle of water, which I accept like a man who’s not had a drink for days rather than the fifteen minutes it has been. He’s still annoyingly fresh, sweat barely breaking on his forehead, while I look like I’ve fought a bear. Naked. In a sauna.
Wednesday’s our long grind day, and we’ve earned tomorrow off. Not that my legs care—they’re threatening to secede from the rest of me.
“Joyce has a vendetta,” I mutter as the demon master takes off with a far-too-upbeat bounce in his step. “Took something personally in a past life.”
“You do look especially tragic today,” Lachie says with a grin, resting on his elbows. “I should take a photo for that ‘dicks out’ chat you’re in.”
If I had the energy to flip him off again, I’d do so. I shouldn’t react, but… “We don’t use the chat to jack off together, arsehole,whichI will sayagain, you’re far too invested in the idea of. And that’snotits name.” The group chat my butthead friend is referring to has an impressive collection of international queer athletes—most I met in the flesh last year at a photoshoot. Hell, if I suggested a group jackoff session, it’s likely one of the horny arseholes would think it’s a good idea. Cosmo, probably. I manage to arch my brow at Lachie. Though since I’m still flat on my back, I’m not sure how effective it is.
“Whatever.” He sighs. “Perhaps I’ll send it to the team chat instead. Rather than finding this”—he waves his hand in my general direction—“a thirst trap, they’ll see the tragedy as God intended.”
I snort as he smirks. “They already think I sleep hanging upside down in a cold cellar. Not sure they need any more proof of just how tragic I am.”
“True.” Lachie rolls his eyes. “But they respect the hell out of you, so it’s probably a very majestic cold cellar. Big, echoey. Fancy torch lighting.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s true. The Seagulls are my team in almost every sense. Nine years with Lachie by my side, more seasons than I care to count with most of this squad, and I’d still throw down for any one of them without hesitation. They’re family. Not just in the cliché way—actual family. Not something I say lightly.
My blood family’s up in the West Midlands, and I love them, I do. But this lot? This scrappy, foul-mouthed, endlessly loyal crew? They’re my people, my chosen family. The older guys had my back when I came out at twenty-two, when the noise got loud and the headlines tried to twist it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t carry a bit of that bitterness still. It’s quieter now, duller around the edges, but it’s made me wary. Guarded.
As a result, I trust who I trust. That circle is small, and I like it that way. It’s also why tonight’s going to be such a ball ache.
I’m meeting someone new—something I try to avoid… like open bars and emotional vulnerability. Tank, my tattoo artist of the last five years, has decided to bugger off to Canada. Says it’s for a “fresh start,” which I think is code for “I’m sick of your grumpy arse, Cam.”
