Page 34 of Full Tilt
“You invited me,” I reply, trying for neutral but smiling anyway. “Didn’t want to miss it.”
“Good,” he says simply, and that’s that. No drama. No awkwardness. Just Camden, steady as I’ve come to expect, grounding the moment without even trying.
We fall into step together, the crowd jostling around us. He doesn’t introduce me to anyone, but he doesn’t not acknowledge me either. Some of the players offer nods, a few raised brows.
Lachie spots me and grins wide, nudging the guy next to him before calling out, “Oi, look who it is—Crawford’s ink guy shows up and sticks around. Must be serious.”
Camden lets out a quiet sigh, but it’s more resigned than annoyed. I catch the barest flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He also pointedly ignores his friend and leads me towards the back of the pub. Food’s already coming out and being placed on the tables—burgers, chips, salad, and sharing platters like someone ordered for a rugby team. Because, well, they did.
We sit side by side in a booth, not too close, but close enough that when he leans in to speak, I can smell the clean, sharp scent of whatever soap he used. His knee bumps mine under the table—accidentally, maybe—but he doesn’t move it.
“You enjoy the match?” he asks, voice pitched lower now that the volume’s dropped a bit in the back room.
“Yeah,” I say, and maybe I’m a little too eager, because I hear the energy in my voice even before I can tone it down. “I mean, I’ve seen it on TV before, but in person? It’s wild. The pace, the weight of it. You lot don’t hold back.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “No point holding back.”
I turn towards him a bit. “The scrum’s more brutal than I thought. You’re just in there, anchored, like… like the centre of a wheel or something. And that breakdown near the end—Jesus, that was tight.”
His eyebrows lift, just a little. “You’ve been studying.”
I grin. “Maybe. I might’ve googled some stuff.”
His eyes flick over my face, and I can tell he’s amused. But also maybe—just maybe—pleased.
“Say ‘breakdown’ again,” he says, dry as anything.
I narrow my eyes. “You mocking me?”
“A bit,” he admits, lips twitching. “But I’m impressed.”
We lapse into another moment of quiet as another round of food arrives. Wings first. Something messy and beautiful. Camden reaches for one without ceremony, wipes his hand on a napkin, and glances sideways at me again, offering me a sort-of smile before he bites into the wing.
I follow suit, and before long, the back room fills slowly—teammates trickling in, laughter bouncing off the worn brick walls, the occasional thud of a heavy chair being dragged back. Someone’s already raided the jukebox, and a low thrum of 2000s indie rock filters through the hum of conversation.
Plates of food keep arriving like magic. Hot dogs, wedges, onion rings the size of bracelets. It smells like grease and salt and glory.
Camden and I are still side by side—closer than before, if that’s even possible. The booth seat’s narrow, all of the tables packed, and eventually there’s nowhere else for our thighs to go but flush against each other. His pants are warm, firm, and solid against mine, and he doesn’t shift away.
God, help me.
Every movement he makes sends a pulse through my body—shoulders rolling under his shirt, exposing his sinful forearmsfrom where he’s rolled up the cuffs, as he reaches for another wing. His hand is close enough that if I moved two inches, I could touch the inside of his wrist. I don’t.
But I want to.
It’s hard not to feel the sheer size of him pressed this close. He’s massive—built to hit, to hold, to command space like it’s nothing. My mind shouldn’t be going where it’s going. Not with this wholefriendsthing. Not when I’ve been watching him push his body to the limit for eighty minutes under the sun. Not when he’s already this raw, this open in a way I know costs him something.
But I do. Of course I do.
I want to know what he sounds like when he gives in. What it’d be like to take him apart slow and greedy. To get my hands on that thick, powerful body and feel it shake under me.
My fingers tighten around the neck of my beer bottle. God, I’d wreck him.
And now I’m thinking about Camden Crawford, professional hard-ass and resident mystery man, on his knees—eyes dark, that mouth parted, his hand on my thigh, letting go for me. Trusting me to take control.
My skin heats. I swallow hard.
Fuck, I’m so gone.
