Page 64 of Full Tilt
Brent
I almost didn’t come.
After watching the match—hell, after watchinghim—I nearly turned around three times before even making it to the car. Camden didn’t look like he needed company when the final whistle blew. He looked like a man carrying too much weight and bracing for more. But I knew if I’d asked outright whether he wanted to see me tonight, he’d have said no. The man doesn’t ask for help, not even when he’s on fire.
So I didn’t ask.
Now I’m following him up the stairs to his flat, the echo of his keys in the lock louder than either of us. He’s quiet, his shoulders drawn tight and his gaze flicking once behind us before we step inside. I catch it—the assessing glance, the flicker of nerves, the subtle check for cameras or wandering eyes.
It makes sense. He’s the captain of a top-tier team under a microscope. The last thing he needs is some press snapping photos of him with a bloke in tow, sensationalising his personal life when it’s the game that should be centre stage.
And I’m okay with that. Really. Because what he needs tonight is some damn TLC.
As soon as we’re inside, I set about running him a bath. He shoots me a look, part surprised, part bemused. He’s not used to being looked after. I can see it in the way he lingers near the doorway, not quite sure what to do with himself. Still, when I hand him a beer and gesture for him to sit, he obeys—barely masking a tired smile. I take it as a win.
“I was gonna throw the ref through a wall,” I say lightly, crouching to fiddle with the water temperature.
Cam snorts softly behind me. “Get in line.”
The bath fills slowly, steam curling into the small space. I sit nearby, giving him room without making him feel alone. We talk about the game—something I hadn’t expected him to want to do. But I think he needs to vent. Needs someone who won’t tell him to move on or shake it off. Someone who’ll just… listen.
When he gets to the part about the post-match press conference, though, his words falter.
“They asked about distractions,” he says finally, voice low.
My stomach tightens. “Distractions?”
He nods, not quite meeting my eye.
I sit back against the wall and take a slow breath. “You mean me?”
Cam’s silence says enough.
Fuck.
I should tell him I’ll back off. That I get it. That rugby’s his life, and I’d never want to jeopardise it. But I don’t say any of that. Because while I do get it… also, fuck that. I like him. I want him. Not just in my bed but in my life. And I’m not going to let a few shitty headlines or his own internal doubts scare me off.
Still. Now isn’t the time to say any of that either.
He needs calm, comfort, something easy. So I say, “You want a top-up on that beer, Captain?”
And his shoulders finally relax, just a little. Enough to remind me that while the night didn’t start the way I wanted, I’m exactly where I need to be.
I test the water with my hand and nod. Perfect—steamy but not scalding. I glance back over my shoulder to where Camden leans against the doorframe, still cradling the beer I handed him, eyes distant.
“You are good with baths, right?” I ask, maybe a little late.
His answer is a half-assed grunt. “I’ve had worse ideas.”
That’s a yes for him. I take it.
When he steps fully into the bathroom, I grab one of the fluffier towels from the linen cupboard—he’s not one to treat himself, but I am—and place it near the radiator to warm. I light one of the subtle candles I spotted on his shelf. Not floral, not sweet. Just a clean, cedarwood thing that smells like calm.
By the time I join him, he’s already sinking into the water with a long-drawn-out sigh that makes something twist in my chest. He needs this. Not just the bath but the care. The pause. A soft moment in the middle of a very loud week.
“I feel like a bloody pensioner,” he mutters.
“You’re a pensioner who took four tackles and played all eighty minutes,” I reply, grabbing the washcloth and soaking it. “You’ve earned this.”
