Page 107 of Full Tilt
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.
Myboyfriend’sass.
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.
