“I absolutely won’t.”
“Cap,” Rafi cuts in, still half damp and very entertained, “do you ever like new people?”
I pause, then raise a brow. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not unless they come with a rugby ball and an injury report.”
Rafi laughs again, and Lachie leans back against the locker, still grinning. I’ve got a reputation around here—dour, dry, loyal to a fault. But the lads, especially those who’ve been here for a few seasons, know the truth. They’ve seen the worst of me and stuck around. That makes them mine. And in return, I’d take on the world for them.
The showers hiss in the background. Someone’s singing off-key. Probably Jules. The mood’s light, but under it all, there’sa current—quiet intensity and shared purpose. Six matches left. Every point matters. Every tackle counts.
After hosing down, I towel off, drag on some fresh clothes, and start to head out.
“Hey, Cap,” Rafi calls as I pass.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t scare this Brent dude too bad, yeah?”
“No promises.”
Rafi grins as he waves me off.
The sun’s dipping low by the time I get home from the supermarket. The sky’s streaked in that soft kind of gold that makes even the car parks look poetic. Not that I’m in the mood to get all sentimental—my lower back’s barking, and my stomach’s doing its best impression of a hollow drum.
My flat’s not far from the club, a short enough drive that I’ve got muscle memory for every traffic light and pothole. It’s nothing flashy—two-bed, second floor, tucked in a quiet corner of Exeter in a block where mainly other blokes, and a couple of older women, live solo and seem to enjoy silence as much as I do. We nod in the stairwell, maybe exchange a line or two about the weather, but no one pushes for more. It’s ideal.
I let myself in, toe off my trainers, and take a breath, which feels heavier than it should. It’s quiet, which is how I’ve set things up. How I like it.
Or how I’ve told myself I like it.
Solitude’s a funny thing. I’ve always needed space to reset, to breathe, to not be “Camden Crawford: Captain, Bloke Who Came Out in the Spotlight, Still Has a Solid Tackling Percentage.” I’ve carved out this little corner of the world where I can justbe, and for the most part, it’s a relief.
But sometimes—nights like this—there’s an edge to it. It’s a bit like silence with teeth.
Coming out at twenty-two damn near gutted me. The press had a field day. Fans, strangers, pundits with opinions no one asked for. I couldn’t so much as step outside for a takeaway without someone trying to snap a photo or shout something clever about my “bravery.” That or they hollered something gross that made it hard not to knock them flat on their arses. It took me years to stop flinching every time a flash went off. Years longer to stop trying to shrink myself in public.
And dating? Hooking up? Forget it. I don’t do clubs. I don’t trust people easily. And I sure as hell don’t need another twink with an Instagram account selling a “Hot Night with England Hopeful Camden Crawford” toThe Sun. Once was enough, thanks. Six years ago, and it still makes my skin crawl.
So yeah. Maybe I’ve built this quiet life for myself. And maybe I’ve forced myself to like it a little more than I actually do.
I head into the kitchen and put my groceries away. Once the space is tidy, I pull out a pan and toss in some chicken and veggies, the sizzle a small comfort. Cooking helps. Simple, focused, physical. It’s a little like training, but with less screaming from Joyce or Coach.
I’m halfway through chopping basil when my phone buzzes on the counter. I smile, seeing my brother’s name.
I wipe my hands and answer. “Yeah, Joel, I’m alive.”
“I did start to wonder.” His voice is bright, his Walsall accent thicker than mine these days. “Been trying to call you all week, you miserable git.”
“I’ve been busy being professionally pummelled.”
“Well, I’m getting professionally pummelled by wedding planning. So we’re both suffering.”
That gets a small smile out of me. “July’s coming fast.”
“Don’t remind me.” He groans. “Tasha’s got me choosing napkin colours.Napkins, Cam. Like it matters what shade of beige they are.”
