Page 51 of Full Tilt
He sighs. “That’ll be the family group chat blowing up.” He stretches to grab his jeans, completely naked as he steps out of bed. And I—Christ—I almost choke.
The morning sun is cutting through the blinds in long golden stripes, laying over the lines of his back, his broad shoulders, the dip of his spine. The faint sheen of sleep-warmed skin glows under it, and when he leans to dig his phone out of his jeans pocket, every muscle shifts in harmony. I’m not proud of the strangled noise I make.
He turns, grinning, and my gaze catches on the flash of metal through his nipple—how the hell did I miss that?—and then lower, at ink wrapped around his hips. And then lower still.
“Tony,” he says, scrolling. “One of the twins. It’s the family chat. He’s trying to organise Fourth of July stuff already. Says I’m banned from bailing this year.”
“You go back for it all the time?” I ask, surprised by how normal the question sounds.
“I try to every other year,” he says, “which isn’t always possible. It’s kind of a Parks tradition. BBQs, family chaos… all that good shit. Last year I skipped because of my schedule. I think they’re holding it against me.”
He smiles down at the message, and I watch it transform his whole face. It’s unfair—how good-looking he is when he’s like this. All unguarded and gorgeous, standing in my bedroom like he belongs.
I tear my gaze away before I embarrass myself further.
He tosses the phone back onto his jeans and pads over to the bed, slipping under the covers again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “So,” he says, settling beside me, his tone light, “what’s your breakfast order?”
And just like that, it’s easy again. Quiet. Real. And even if I’m not sure what this is, we’re finding a rhythm I’m not ready to give up just yet.
“I could definitely eat,” I say, trying for nonchalant even though my heart’s still pounding from watching him stand naked in morning light like some sort of sin incarnate. “Full English? Maybe something sweet. Whatever you bring back, I’ll eat.”
Brent arches an eyebrow, smug smile curving his lips. “That sounded dangerously close to innuendo.”
“I’m not denying it.” I smirk and nudge him with my knee. “Now go. Feed me, tattoo man.”
He leans down and kisses me—another one of those soft, slow, almost reverent presses of lips that’s way too much for a morning after. Way too much for something we’ve never actually named.
And then he’s up, stretching, tugging his clothes back on, and disappearing out the door with a casual “Be back in twenty.”
The flat is suddenly quiet without him, and I’m not sure I like that. I exhale and reach for my own phone, left on the bedsidetable and still plugged in from last night. The screen lights up with a few training reminders, a message from our media guy checking on Briggs after last night’s debacle—honestly, I’m not even surprised he knows; Davey seems to know everything—and a couple of texts from Lachie—one of which is just a single rainbow emoji. Subtle.
I don’t reply.
Instead, I open the Love the Game group chat, suddenly needing something familiar. It’s still wild to me that I’m in this thing—a whole group of queer athletes from around the world, from all levels and all sports, trying to survive the chaos of sport and identity and media. It’s not perfect, but it’s a lifeline sometimes. The kind of thing I didn’t know I needed until I had it.
Still, today, opening the chat feels… weird. Knowing Cosmo’s in there. Cosmo Parks. Brent’s baby brother. A kid I’ve shared more conversations with than I can count. Who’s asked me for advice. Who I’ve offered encouragement to. Who’s a damn good ice hockey player and a decent human to boot.
And now I’ve fucked his brother and am currently waiting on breakfast in bed with said brother. Not that I’m ever telling Cosmo that.
The last flurry of messages is from yesterday morning. Nothing to do with me—just the usual chatter.
Connor:
Still think it’s complete bollocks they call it “soccer” over there. I refuse.
Ferris:
Says the guy actually FROM England. You don’t get to judge.
Connor:
Exactly because I’m from England. It’s football. End of.
Cosmo:
I’m just here for the chaos. Also, someone please tell me it’s okay to fake an injury and bail tomorrow.
Connor:
