Page 38 of Full Tilt
Brent snorts into his drink. “Understatement of the year.”
“He keeps that chat alive, though. It’s… good, having that group. Bit of everything in there. Good kids like Cosmo, and old bastards like me.”
“You’re not that old,” Brent says, but he’s grinning, like he knows full well I’m going to roll my eyes. I do.
Still, the tension that had been wound so tight in my chest since the whistle blew? Since walking into this pub with Brent already inside, waiting? It eases. It’s not gone, but it’s better.
I clear my throat. “He ever deal with the media? Fans?”
Brent leans back slightly, nursing what’s left of his lager. “He’s pretty protected at college. The school’s good about that. Coaches, PR staff—his teammates have his back too. But as a family, we kind of made it our mission to look out for one another. Stay grounded. No bullshit.”
I nod, quiet for a beat.
“I miss them, though,” he says suddenly. His voice shifts—still open, but softer. “I don’t regret moving here. Not for a second. But being that far away from them? Some days that’s harder than I expected.”
That hits somewhere deep. I glance at him, wondering if I have a right to ask, but the words are already on my tongue. “Think you’ll ever go back? For good, I mean?”
He turns his head and looks right at me. I shouldn’t be holding my breath, but I am. Like something in me is waiting. Bracing.
“I don’t know,” he says after a pause. “I’ve got no set plans. I’ve been here a long time. It’s home now, in a weird way. Next year, I’ll apply for British citizenship.”
There’s a flicker in his voice—not hesitation, exactly, but something softer beneath the surface. Like he’s made peace with it. Like it still surprises him, calling another country home. Like part of him is still trying to mean it fully.
I blink. Something in me—something tangled and tightly guarded—unravels a little. It’s not just that he’s staying. It’s that he wants to. That this life, this place, is his. Even if sometimes, maybe, it still feels like he’s got one foot somewhere else.
I look at him too long, and when I do, I realise the truth is catching up with me. We’d agreed on friends. Tentative. Unspoken. But I’m attracted to him. And not just casually, and definitely not in that one-night way I’ve come to tolerate when the mood and the stars align.
This is different.
This is slower, warmer. This is a smile I want to keep earning. A voice I want in my ear when I’m walking home.
And that shit right there? That’s scary as fuck.
I’m still watching Brent. Still trying to process the whole potential British citizenship, that Cosmo’s his brother, and that I might actually like this man in a way that has nothing to do with simple physical attraction when I hear my name.
Loudly.
Twice.
“Crawford!”
I twist in my seat to find a few of my teammates waving me over—one in particular swaying a little too enthusiastically for comfort. Fuck.
I sigh, then glance at Brent. “Sorry,” I say, leaning in just enough to be heard. “Give me five?”
He nods, but I linger a second longer.
“And don’t—” I hesitate, then throw subtlety out the window. “Don’t go anywhere.”
His brows rise, just for a beat… like he wasn’t expecting that. But then that smile—that smile—breaks over his face. Confident. Warm. Easy in a way I’ll never be.
“I won’t,” he says.
God, help me.
I step away and push through the back room towards the noise. The lads part a bit as I arrive, and I clock who the problem is immediately. Briggs. He’s younger, just barely out of academy squad last season. Big, full of talent, and currently three pints past his limit. We’ve talked about keeping a low profile post-match. We always talk about it. But somehow, this guy’s got the tact of a cymbal-playing monkey.
“Briggs,” I growl, already regretting this, “what the fuck are you doing?”
