Page 69 of Full Tilt
15
Camden
The sky’sthreatening rain as we exit the stadium, that sticky-grey kind of afternoon where the clouds feel too close, pressing down on everything. Lachie’s beside me, muttering something about the footage we just watched, but I’m not really listening. My brain’s still spinning with every fumble, every missed opportunity—and yeah, every comment Coach made with that strained I’m-not-blaming-you-but tone.
I tug my mobile out, my brows pulling low when I see missed calls and a couple of text messages. My phone’s been on silent, and I know better than to check it during game tape replays. I thumb over the screen. It’s Brent.
Brent: Hey. Tried to call. Please call me when you can.
Another one right beneath it:
Brent: Just a heads-up, someone came by the shop asking questions. About you. About us. I told him to fuck off, but I think he might be press. He dropped your name.
I stop walking, and my stomach clenches—tight and cold.Fucking hell.I stand there alone, clouds thick overhead, thumb hovering over Brent’s name.
“Cam?” Lachie calls out to me. When we make eye contact, his whole body shifts. “Something wrong?”
I shake my head once, shallow. “Just… give me a minute.”
He nods and doesn’t push, just keeps going towards the cars. I lower my phone, jaw tight, heart hammering hard enough to make my ribs ache.
I’m pissed.
Not at Brent. Not even close. At the situation. At the press. At whoever the hell that bastard was walking into Brent’s studio, sniffing around like it was his right. Brent doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve being put in the crosshairs because of me. Because we’re… whatever this is. And I sure as hell don’t want him regretting it.
The thought makes something raw crack open in my chest.
I look down at the phone again, debating what to say. What to do. I don’t know if this is the beginning of something getting worse—or if it’s the moment when I finally have to decide how far I’m willing to go to protect this thing we’ve barely begun.
But one thing’s clear: This isn’t Brent’s fault, and I won’t let him carry it like it is.
I hit Call before I can second-guess it, taking the final few steps towards my car. The phone barely rings once before Brent picks up.
“Cam?” His voice is tight. Worried. “Fuck. Thank you for calling. Are you okay?”
The squeeze in my gut intensifies. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie. Sort of. I’m angry. Frustrated. Tired. But not at him.
He exhales, the sound thick with relief. “I didn’t want to text too much in case you hadn’t seen it yet. I just… when he said your name?—”
“Yeah,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “I read it.”
“I swear, I didn’t invite that guy in. I thought he was just interested in the studio. He was… friendly, at first. Curious. I should’ve caught on sooner.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
Silence on the other end. Then, cautiously, he says, “You’re not?”
“No.” I let out a breath and lean against the car. “I’m pissed off, yeah. But not at you. You didn’t put my name in his mouth. You didn’t send him.”
Brent’s quiet for a beat. I hear the faint rustle of movement on his end—maybe him sitting down, or pacing.
“I just didn’t want you to be blindsided,” he says finally, voice softer. “I know how much privacy means to you.”
I close my eyes. That. Right there. That’s what makes all this harder.
“I don’t even know what I’m more angry about,” I mutter. “That the guy came sniffing, or that I let myself think maybe… maybe we’d get away with it. That I could have something for myself without it being turned into a fucking headline.”
Brent doesn’t say anything at first. When he does, it’s careful. “You still can. Have something, I mean.”
