Page 18 of Full Tilt
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 Ilikehim.
Probably more than I should.
5
Camden
We’re talking about moss.
Not metaphorically.
Literal moss.
Apparently, there’s a kind that glows faintly in caves up north, and Brent saw it once in a documentary and thought it was the coolest shit ever. I don’t know how we got onto the subject—probably something about strange British nature or weird local facts—but somehow, it’s fifteen minutes later and I’m sitting in the corner of my team’s pub, trying not to smile like an idiot while a heavily tattooed American tells me about bioluminescence with the enthusiasm of a drunk history teacher.
And what’s weirder is I’m relaxed. My shoulders aren’t near my ears. My jaw’s not clenched. My guard’s still there—somewhere—but it’s been shoved to the back seat by this calm, warm presence who keeps looking at me like I’m worth talking to, not for what I do on the pitch but just… for me.
It’s dangerous.
He’s easy. Not in the casual sense—but in the way he fills silence without pushing, jokes without jabbing, listens without making it feel like I’m under a microscope. Witty, chilled,confident, but not in that brash, look-at-me way that makes my skin crawl.
