Page 36 of Full Tilt
“Oh?” I say, still laughing. “Disappointing.”
Camden shoots me a look, but he’s smirking now. “It’s actually a chat group I’ve got with a bunch of queer athletes. We all met last year—photoshoot thing, article inQueervolution. Kept in touch after. It’s… decent.”
My brain halts.
Holy fuck.
My gaze snaps to him before I can help it, eyes wide, heart doing that stupid stutter again.
He notices. Of course he does. His expression shifts slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to work out exactly what I know—and whether it’s a problem. “What?” he says, cautious but not sharp. “Didn’t think I had friends?”
“No,” I say quickly, lifting a hand. “No, it’s just—That’s… cool. I actually saw your name when I was looking up what a tighthead prop even does. One of the links mentioned an old interview. Some press crap too.”
His jaw ticks once, barely. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “They had a field day back then.”
“I noticed,” I say, softer now. “But nothing in the last few years, which is kind of impressive.” It seriously is no easy feat, staying out of the limelight, especially as an out player.
He shrugs, glancing away for a second. “I learned to keep my head down.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. But he looks at me again, more searching than before. Like he’s waiting for some hint of judgement, some flinch.
He won’t find it.
Instead, I smile. “Still badass, being involved in thatQueervolutionarticle.”
His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable there. The tension in his jaw loosens, just a little. Lachie, mercifully distracted by someone else’s fries, turns his attention away, and Camden relaxes a bit beside me. Not fully—he’s still Camden, after all—but the edge softens.
I don’t ask for more. But I file it away, this new layer of him. One he didn’t have to share but did anyway. Because Camden Crawford might be the quietest man in the room, but there’s a hell of a lot going on underneath.
And somehow, he let me see it.
He’s still scrolling through his phone, thumb scrolling with the kind of concentration that looks suspiciously like he’s trying not to smile. His mouth twitches once—once—and that’s when the thought creeps in.
Wait a second.
I’d skimmed that article when it came out. It was a big deal—queer athletes from different sports speaking out, showing up, challenging perceptions. I remembered the photoshoot. How could I not? Saw the buzz. I even remember thinking,Holy shit, where were guys like this when I was coming out?
But now that I think about it, why can’t I remember seeing Camden’s name? Or even his image? Sure, I probably hadn’t been reading it for the journalism, but still. If I’d seen him, I would’ve remembered. Hell, he’d have been my late-night fantasy long before I knew his name, never mind kissed him in an alley.
Probably for the best I didn’t,I think, trying to fight the smile tugging at my mouth.
And maybe it’s that—maybe it’s the feeling of knowing just a little more about him, or maybe it’s the buzz of connection still humming between us—but it’s time to test the waters.
I tip my head casually. “So… is the group chat called Love the Game?”
The effect is immediate. He stops scrolling. His head lifts slowly, eyes narrowing with a look that could freeze the surface of a lake in July. The air between us sharpens. “Excuse me?” The words have bite. Not loud, but lethal.
Oh shit.
Abort mission.
I lift both hands, one still holding my beer. “Wait, no—hold on. I’m not spying or anything. I swear.”
His expression doesn’t budge.
“I only asked,” I say quickly, “because my brother’s in a group chat. Similar vibe. Queer athletes. He’s in college—plays ice hockey. I told you a bit about him. His name’s Cosmo. He mentioned the group name once.”
Camden stares at me, still frozen. A beat passes. Then another.
