Page 102 of Full Tilt
Still.
After the next play, I jog over to the wing for a breather and glance at the stands, searching for a distraction—and find it instantly.
Brent.
He’s standing, water bottle in hand, sunglasses shoved up in his curls, his shirt sticking to his chest from the heat. He’s smiling—properly smiling—and it’s aimed at me. It hits like a cold shower and a jolt of caffeine all in one.
I know that smile. It’s not about the game. It’s for me.
My chest eases, and when the whistle blows for the restart, I’m already rolling my shoulders and settling back into formation, mind cleared, focus sharp.
Screw Pen and his grin. I’ve already got everything I need.
We pull out a win by five points. It’s not a slaughter, but not nothing either. The final whistle goes, and the whole pitch erupts into applause and claps on the back. The US team’s still in high spirits, even after the loss, which only makes me like them more.
As we shake hands again, Pen shoots me one last smile. “If the captaincy doesn’t work out,” he says, “you’ve got a backup career in charming the pants off the opposition.”
I blink. “You winked at me mid-tackle.”
“I was giving you a compliment.” He grins.
I laugh, a little incredulous. “That’s not how this works.”
“Isn’t it?” He winks again, then pats me on the shoulder and walks off, still grinning.
I shake my head and jog off the field, muttering, “Bloody Americans.”
By the time I reach the tunnel, Brent’s waiting—cool bottle of water extended like a gift from the gods, and his All Access pass hanging around his neck. “How do you feel?” he asks as I take a long drink.
“Sweaty. Exhausted.” I grin. “Victorious.”
He tilts his head. “And marginally flirted with?”
I choke on the water. “You saw that?”
“Cam, the man blew you a kiss during the second half. I was ready to throw a banana at him.”
“I didn’t notice the kiss.”
Brent raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
I narrow my eyes. “Jealous?”
He shrugs, smug. “Nah. I’m the one who gets to help you out of that kit later.”
Heat spreads under my skin, and not from the sun. “You’re the worst.”
“I’myourworst.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance, warmth blooming behind my ribs. “Yeah. You are.”
He walks with me back towards the changing room, fingers brushing mine as we go. “Come on, Captain. Let’s get you cleaned up. My parents are already planning dinner. Something about ribs the size of your face.”
“And fireworks?”
“Oh, babe.” His grin is lethal. “You have no idea.”
By the time we’re in the locker room, I’m buzzing. Not just from the win—which was tight but satisfying—but from the entire atmosphere. The Jacksonville lads were great sports, and the vibe of the crowd was rowdy in a way that reminded me of home, even if most of them were still figuring out what a scrum was.
