Page 71 of Full Tilt
“Then you’ve got to trust that. Trust yourself. You’ve never been one to check out mentally just because you’ve got something good going off the pitch. And if you are happier? Lighter?” He smirks. “Maybe that’s a bloody good thing.”
I let out a breath. “I do still want to be here. Want to play. Train. Lead. I like the way Brent makes me feel—like I can breathe—but it doesn’t make me want this any less.”
Lachie nods. “Then maybe it’s not a distraction. Maybe it’s just new. And yeah, the media might sniff around, but you’ve got us. You’ve got this team. We’re not bailing.”
Something in me steadies.
He claps me on the shoulder. “Just don’t let the bastards win. On or off the pitch.” He winks at me and backs away to his Range Rover.
The air doesn’t feel quite so suffocating. My mind’s still racing, sure, but beneath it all is something calmer. Not just guilt or nerves, but hope, and that’s something worth holding on to.
By the timeI get to Brent’s, the storm inside me has finally quieted.
I’ve already been home. I walked into my flat, and the first thing I noticed was the faint scent of him still clinging to my sheets—soap and spice and whatever he uses in his hair. It hit me like a punch to the chest. Not in a bad way, just… grounding. I’d stood there in the middle of the room for a minute longer than necessary, letting it settle. Lettinghimsettle.
Then I cleaned. Nothing big—just tidied a few things, folded some laundry, wiped down the kitchen counters. Domestic shit. But it helped. Something about the rhythm of it is therapeutic. Something about the order.
I spoke to Mum too. Told her I was fine. We didn’t talk long—just enough for her to hear my voice and for me to hear hers. It reminded me who I am. Where I come from. What I’ve already coped with. A couple of shit headlines and a nosy stranger? That’s not enough to knock me over. So yeah, I’m more composed now.
And when Brent opens the door, looking like he’s caught between greeting me and bracing for a punch, that steadiness doesn’t falter.
He’s tense, jaw set, eyes flicking over my shoulder like he’s making sure no one’s followed me. He steps back almostimmediately, staying behind the door—keeping himself hidden from the street view.
My chest tugs. He’s protecting me. That’s what this is.
“I’ve been checking socials,” he says quickly, voice low and tight. “Nothing’s come up. Not yet. But if it does—if that guy sells something or twists it?—”
“Brent,” I say, and I don’t mean to cut him off, but I do.
His mouth clamps shut, like he’s preparing to be told off or brushed off. So I do the only thing I can think of. I step forwards, grab his face in both hands, and kiss him.
No words. No warning. Just lips and breath and the warm press of him against me.
He stills for half a second—just one heartbeat—and then melts into it. His hands find my hips, holding me like I might disappear, and the kiss shifts, grows, deepens. It’s not frantic or heated. It’s not about sex.
It’s about grounding.
About him.
About me.
About us.
I pull back, just a little, our foreheads brushing. He’s breathing hard. So am I. But his eyes are soft now. Open.
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against the side of my thumb.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say again. “I’m here because I want to be.”
He nods, slow and uncertain, like he doesn’t quite trust it. But I do.
I step inside, closing the door behind me, and when his hand finds mine a second later, I don’t let go. Not this time. Not when I’ve finally decided to stop running from something that feels this real.
We don’t move right away. There’s something about standing in the quiet warmth of Brent’s flat—our hands still linked, his chest brushing mine with every breath—that makes it hard to break the moment. But he gives a small smile and tugs gently, guiding me further inside like I belong.
He lets go only long enough to flip the deadbolt behind me, then trails into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Want a drink? I’ve got beer, juice, or that sparkling elderflower stuff you said tasted like posh lemonade.”
