Page 90 of Full Tilt
Tony blinks. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like something dangerous and vaguely illegal.”
Cam just shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I anchor the scrum. Keep the line steady. Push against a wall of men trying to crush me. Hit hard. Take hits harder.”
Tony’s mouth hangs open. “That’s badass. Wait, you do that on purpose and without a helmet or pads?”
Cam nods.
Tony turns to me, stunned. “Your boyfriend is terrifying.”
I blink. Cam’s gaze slides towards me, just as my own flicks to him. There’s a beat. A pause just long enough for both of us to register the word neither of us has dared say out loud.
Boyfriend.
Cam’s jaw ticks like he’s considering saying something, but then?—
He just shrugs. Easy. Casual. “Good,” he mutters.
My mouth twitches. “Yeah,” I say, playing it cool even as something warm and wobbly flares in my chest. “I know.”
Tony, oblivious, whistles low. “Terrifying and hot. Well done, bro.”
We both ignore that one. But neither of us corrects him. And maybe that says more than anything else.
Tony shakes his head and mutters something about needing to start lifting weights again. Cam just grins quietly and watches the road.
I settle back in my seat, warmth curling in my chest. I’m the only brother who didn’t get into sports—barely made it through school sports, if I’m honest. But my parents never gave me shit about it. They supported every creative outlet I threw myself into. Tattooing. Drawing. Even that brief period where I thought I’d become a magician.
Still, I know my mom—especially—would love if I moved back. I feel it in the way she lingers on every FaceTime. The way she always asks if I’m eating enough. If the flat’s warm enough. If I’m lonely.
Maybe I was. For a while. But with Cam beside me, arm brushing mine in the back seat, that ache doesn’t sting so sharply anymore. He glances at me as Tony launches into another wild story, and I see the corner of his mouth lift—just slightly.
And honestly, under the warm, late-night Georgia sky, I think… maybe we’re both exactly where we’re meant to be.
19
Camden
The smellof grilled corn and smoked ribs hits me before I even make it out the back door.
It’s hot—hotter than anything I’ve felt in a while. Georgia doesn’t just do heat; it does full-body sauna. The air clings to my skin the second I step outside, a wet blanket of humidity wrapping around my limbs. I’m in a T-shirt and shorts, but I’m already rethinking both. My trainers stick faintly to the deck, and I don’t even want to know what the pavement feels like.
Brent’s standing just ahead of me, barefoot and smiling like he’s never been more at home in his life.
And maybe he hasn’t. Not in a long time, at least.
There’s a speaker tucked under a shaded pergola blasting a mix of funk and country and something that might be bluegrass. The pool glints like polished glass, half full of his extended family—some swimming, some lounging, some half wrestling on inflatable floats. A football flies overhead. A cooler cracks open with a satisfying hiss. Someone—probably one of the twins—yells, “Shotgun!” loud enough to make a few birds take flight.
And me? I’m just standing here, staring like a wide-eyed British idiot, trying to make sense of it all.
“You all right?” Brent’s beside me now, nudging my side with a can of root beer. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says ‘I’m either dangerously fond of you or wondering if your family’s going to initiate me with a chili cook-off.’”
I take the can, trying not to laugh. “That obvious?”
“Painfully.” He leans in close enough to nudge his shoulder against mine. “Welcome to the Fourth of July.”
