Page 32 of Full Tilt
“Yeah, I liked the vibe. Quiet, scenic. But I wanted somewhere with a bit more population, more energy day to day. Exeter felt like a good middle ground. Enough hustle, but it doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard.”
I hum in agreement. “I get that.”
He glances over, curious. “You been here long?”
“Nine years. I moved from the Midlands when I signed with the club full-time.”
“Good move?”
“Best one I made, probably.” I let my thumb roll over the condensation on the neck of the bottle. “Nothing against Walsall. The town did me proud growing up. Solid people. Just… bit rough around the edges these days.”
Brent grins. “I think that’s code for ‘built character.’”
I chuckle under my breath. “That’s what my mum says. Usually when I complain about the public transport.”
We lapse into a moment of easy silence, the kind that settles without strain. Just two blokes in a quiet shop, beer in hand, and the buzz of the city tucked safely outside the windows.
There’s something… comfortable here—too comfortable, truth be told. I know I shouldn’t lean into it and shouldn’t want more. But sitting across from him like this—his bare forearms inked and resting on the table, the curve of his smile soft and genuine—it’s hard to remember why I built those walls in the first place.
8
Brent
I’m at the match.I probably shouldn’t be. Not for any real reason, just for the simple fact that I’m a glutton for punishment. Camden came through with a ticket like it was no big thing, like it meant nothing more than an extra seat on the comp list.
And now here I am. Sitting in a row of hyped-up fans, sunscreen and beer thick in the air, pretending like I haven’t been friend-zoned so hard I could be running the support group.
But it’s fine.Really.
We’ve been texting every day since the shop. Every. Day.
Sometimes about his sleeve. Sometimes about the pub menu. Sometimes just random nonsense—memes, random hockey updates from my little brother, that video of the dog who can surf. I keep it casual. Chill. The kind of texting where I absolutely do not ask what his mouth tastes like again or whether he thought about me that night as much as I did him.
I’ve got a good seat. Right near the halfway line, a few rows up. The view’s incredible. Packed crowd, fans waving flags, belting out chants with wild, proud energy. It’s old-school. Concrete and iron. The kind of place that smells like history and meat pies.
Fifteen thousand people are crammed into this stadium. I googled the hell out of it earlier—Willow Park, home of the Exeter Seagulls, though officially it’s named something corporate and dull now. The place is rough around the edges but alive in the way only proper local stadiums can be. Tight sightlines. Echoing noise. A hum beneath the crowd like we’re all wired into something ancient and furious.
The sun’s still out—for once. A rare warm day in late spring. The sky’s a brilliant blue, just the edges kissed with haze. But the shadows are stretching longer now. The sun’s already starting to dip, and the floodlights are coming on, one row at a time. They give everything a soft edge of gold and grit.
It’s the second half, and it’s brutal.
The score’s tight. You can feel it in the air. Every hit lands with a collective wince from the crowd. Every call from the ref is met with either cheers or the kind of swearing that would make a sailor blush. The pace hasn’t slowed since the kick-off—if anything, it’s gotten faster, sharper.
I watch Camden—because of course I do. He’s in the middle of the scrum like a force of nature, body low, shoulders locked in. The man moves like he’s built from stone and fury. Sweat glistens across the back of his neck, dripping down arms already streaked with dirt and effort. Admittedly, I’m not close enough to see said sweat, but my imagination is pretty killer when it comes to imagining Camden hot and dripping. I also definitely did not google rugby rules obsessively just to understand what he does on the pitch.
Absolutely not.
But it is helpful to know that as a tighthead prop, he’s the anchor of the scrum. The brute force. The quiet chaos. The one who makes sure the rest don’t fall apart under pressure.
And he’s damn good at it.
There’s a moment where the opposing team breaks through—close to the line—and Camden gets low, plants his feet, and slams into the guy like a freight train. No hesitation. No flinch. Just clean, efficient violence.
The whole crowd roars. I do too. Not just because it was a good hit, but because it was him. My fingers curl tight around the beer in my hand, and I force myself to breathe. Just breathe. Because yeah, I’m in the friend zone, but if this is the view from there, it’s still kind of amazing.
The final stretch of the match is pure chaos. There are maybe five minutes left on the clock, and everything is blood, noise, and sheer grit. The Seagulls are clinging to a narrow lead, but Newcastle is coming hard—desperate, frantic, throwing everything into one final push.
The guy next to me—an older fan with a scarf that’s seen better decades—keeps shouting, “Hold the bloody line!” like he’s coaching from the stands. His pint’s half spilled down his shirt, and I’m 90 percent sure he doesn’t notice.
