Page 105 of Full Tilt
Pen raises both hands, grin widening. “Hey, no judgement. Just didn’t realise you were already taken.”
“I’m not ‘taken,’” I say, before adding, “I’m very much involved. Big difference.”
Brent huffs out a laugh. “That’s splitting hairs.”
“Not when it comes to this,” I say quietly, meeting his eyes.
Pen whistles low. “Damn. Okay. Got it.”
We finish up the photos—mercifully without more flirt-flashbombs—and head off the pitch. Brent’s hand brushes mine once, then finds it completely. Fingers threaded. Just like that, I feel grounded again.
He squeezes. “You okay?”
I nod once. “Yeah.” But my heart’s still racing.
Not because of Pen. Not because of the game. But because of this. Of him. Of the way one look from Brent calms the rush of everything else. Like a grounding wire straight to my chest.
He’s only here a few more days before he heads back to the UK. Back to his studio. His life. And yeah, I’ll be training, travelling, doing team press, focused on tour matches… but the thought of not seeing him? Not feeling the weight of his hand in mine, the steadiness of his voice late at night?
It’s going to be shit.
Two weeks apart isn’t forever. But when you’ve finally found something—someone—that fits in all the ways you didn’t realise you were missing, even a day feels too long. I squeeze his hand tighter and tell myself I’ve got this.
Because loving someone like him? Yeah. That’s worth every mile in between.
22
Brent
Ten days.That’s how long it’s been since I kissed Camden goodbye at the hotel in Tallahassee and watched him disappear into the lobby to be with his team. Ten days since I drove back to Savannah with my heart all out of rhythm, the phantom heat of his kiss still clinging to my mouth. Ten days of mornings without him and evenings where the quiet of my flat stretches too wide, too hollow.
Which is ridiculous, really. I survived twenty-nine years without Camden Crawford in my life. But now? After weeks of having him in my bed, in my space, wrapped around me like he belonged there? Ten days feels like ten fucking months.
And the bastard’s having a good time.
Don’t get me wrong—it’s well earned. His second game in the States went brilliantly from everything I’ve heard. His team won, the crowd was wild, and he even managed to dodge the press shitstorm that had been hounding him before. The photos I’ve seen—sent by my mom, no less—show him sweaty, smiling, bruised, and surrounded by fans like a goddamn local hero.
Then came the panel.
Apparently, one of the guys in his group chat asked him along for a queer sports panel. Camden joined, got loud about visibilityin pro sports, and my inbox exploded. Cosmo has not shut up about it.
“Why didn’t I get to be on the panel?” he grumbled the other day. “I have opinions. I’ve done stuff. Brent, tell your boyfriend he owes me a platform.”
“You’re still in diapers,” I replied. “You’ve got plenty of time to be loud and famous.”
“Ugh. You’re just bitter you’re missing it all.”
Okay, so maybe I was.
Back here in Exeter, life feels like it’s trudging forwards. The shop’s running fine—Carrie’s keeping the admin tight, and I’ve got a new apprentice coming in next week. Clients are happy. My sketchbook’s full.
And yet.
Camden’s not here.
He’s not hunched on my sofa, watching crap TV and pretending he’s not the world’s worst liar when I catch him staring. He’s not hogging the covers or kicking my calves in his sleep or sneaking kisses behind my ear like he’s not six foot two and made of granite.
So yeah. It kind of sucks.
