Page 28 of Full Tilt
We stand here, awkwardly facing each other with all the grace of two teenagers at their first school dance. We both open our mouths at the same time.
“I—”
“You—”
I smile, trying to cut the tension. “You go.”
Camden hesitates. His eyes flick towards the floor, then back up to me. His mouth twitches—not a smile, not quite. And then he says, “I’m sorry.”
I blink.
“About the other night,” he adds quickly. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I… I handled it badly.”
My stomach sinks a little, just enough to feel it. I manage a quiet laugh. “You knowIkissedyou, right?”
He looks at me—really looks this time—but doesn’t answer. He just shrugs one shoulder, almost helplessly.
I nod, trying to make this easy for him. Trying not to let my own disappointment show. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I didn’t mean to disappear on you,” he says, and it sounds like he’s forcing the words through gravel.
“But you did.”
“I know.”
We stand here in this moment, too many things unsaid and one too many already out in the open. Then he clears his throat and shifts his weight. “I’d like to move forward with the sleeve.”
Ah. Right. Of course.
My chest squeezes tight, but I give him the easiest smile I can muster. “Sure. I’ve actually been tweaking the designs. Want to take a look?”
He nods, stepping further into the studio, eyes flicking to the station we sat at last time. He heads that way without being told. Professional. Straight to business. I follow, pulling the sketchbook from the desk.
And that’s it, then. The kiss is a memory. The gorilla’s back in the cage. But if this is what he wants—distance, control, clean lines between what happened and what will—then I’ll give it to him.
Even if I kind of hate it.
7
Camden
You’d thinkI’d have learned my lesson by now. Making out with a bloke in a dark alley near a public pub, with half the city’s nightlife two pints away from pulling their phones out?Yeah. Real subtle, Crawford.
Sunday was my day off. It was supposed to be all peace and recovery. A long lie-in, stretch session, maybe a roast with the lads. Instead, I spent the whole fucking day wanting to deck myself. What didn’t help was how goddamn hard I’d been after receiving his voice recording.
Every time I walked past a mirror, all I could think wasWhat the hell were you thinking?And yes, before you ask: Did I spend the next two days systematically searching my own name for bullshit press? You’re damn straight I did.
Every major rugby outlet. Every back-alley social media account with a blurry logo and too many numbers. Hell, I even checked the bloodyDaily Mailcomments section. Twice. And nothing. Not a single story. Not a grainy shot of a side-alley kiss or a headline accusing me of “getting cosy with a mystery man.”
It should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made me feel worse.
Because what kind of person assumes the bloke they kissed—who drew up sketches for free, who talked moss and tattoos withme like I wasn’t a total guarded arsehole—would run off and sell the story to the press?
Apparently, me.Thatkind of person is me.
And that’s shit.
It’s not logical. Not fair. Not even remotely who Brent’s shown himself to be. But it’s where my head went—thanks to years of paparazzi, fake stories, fans crossing boundaries, and one unforgettable “hot night with a rugby star” sold to the highest bidder six years ago by someone I’d trusted.
