Page 77 of Full Tilt
“Cam?”
“Mm?”
“Just ignore my dick. It’s excited about proximity. Doesn’t mean I’m making a move.”
His chest stutters with another laugh. “You know that doesn’t help, right?”
“Still felt like the mature thing to say.” I press a kiss to his shoulder. “Even though I absolutely am hard. It’s a biological rebellion.”
He squeezes the arm I have wrapped around his waist, his thumb brushing the underside of my wrist. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “I like this.”
That this isn’t about sex makes my heart pull tight. I don’t say anything for a bit—I just hold him. I’ve always been a snuggler. Don’t let the tattoos or the lip ring fool you—I’m a touch-deprived softie with a cling complex. And this? Holding him like this? Feeling him relax into me, hearing the way his breathing slows?
Yeah. I’m fucked.
He shuffles back just a little, nestling deeper into the cradle of my body, and I nearly lose my mind with how sweet the gesture is.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a while, voice barely above a whisper.
I rest my cheek against his shoulder blade. “Me too.”
And I mean it. All of it. Every complicated, terrifying, amazing bit.
The room goes quiet again, nothing but the soft hum of the night outside and the occasional creak of the floorboards as the house settles around us. I feel him start to drift, the weight of sleep tugging him under. I don’t follow right away.
I stay awake a little longer, just breathing him in. Anchoring myself in the steady rhythm of his body. Because right now—wrapped around the man who makes me feel like more than I’ve ever let myself hope for—I don’t want to sleep.
I just want to feel this.
And hold on.
It’s the second half,and the Seagulls are down.
The crowd at Exeter’s home ground is loud, tense, and vibrating with anticipation that feels more like dread. I’ve been to games before—watched them live and on-screen—but nothing compares to this. To watching him.
Camden Crawford is in the thick of it. He’s a fucking wall—tighthead, set in the scrum like he’s born for it. The way he braces and drives, the way his legs and shoulders align like a machine, it’s a thing of beauty. Controlled aggression. Power in motion. It should be poetry.
But today, there’s a crack in the rhythm. A strain just beneath the surface. And I feel it in my chest.
Wolverhampton is all teeth and precision. They’re playing fast, hard, mean. And they’ve got more than momentum on theirside—they’ve got the lead. It’s only by a few points, but in a match like this, a few points might as well be a cliff’s edge.
I flinch as another tackle smashes down near the sideline. Cam’s already back on his feet, barking orders, hauling a teammate upright by the shirt. His voice doesn’t carry this far, but I can see it in his posture—pure command. But there’s a stiffness to his movements, something wound too tight.
Then it happens.
The pass is fast, the kind of whip-quick throw you only risk when the pressure’s mounting. Cam’s already pivoting—he sees the opening—but the ball goes wide.
Lachie’s the one who takes it. He’s out on the wing, faster than he looks, already sidestepping when?—
Crack.
It’s the kind of sound that stills a crowd. A clean, brutal tackle—but too high, too late. Lachie’s legs scissor mid-air before he slams into the turf.
And he doesn’t get up.
The moment stretches, unnaturally so. Players start to crowd, trainers rush from the sidelines. The ref’s whistle is piercing, but all I can see is Cam.
He stops dead.
