Page 94 of Full Tilt
He kisses my shoulder, then grins up at me. “That’s weirdly romantic and slightly alarming.”
“Yeah, well. You inspire that in me.”
“You’re such a softie.”
“Says the man who snuggles like a professional weighted blanket.”
“I am the blanket,” Brent agrees solemnly.
The fireworks start with a low whistle and a boom so loud it rattles the deck chairs. Everyone screams—some delighted, some startled—and then the sky explodes in a shock of blue and gold.
“Happy Fourth,” Brent murmurs, head against my chest.
“Happy Fourth,” I say, lips pressed to his hair.
And for once, there’s no voice in my head warning me to back off. No shadow of fear about the press, or my teammates, or the weight of what it means to be someone like me in a world that often doesn’t let us be soft and seen.
There’s just this: Brent, glowing in firelight, smiling against my shoulder, home in the most unexpected way.
And fuck—I think I’m in love with him.
20
Brent
It’s surreal—sittingon the back porch of my parents’ house, sipping lukewarm coffee while Camden fucking Crawford loads his overnight bag onto the bed of Dad’s truck.
I blink at the morning sunlight streaming through the Spanish moss and feel like I’ve slipped into a fever dream. He’s wearing that faded grey tee that clings to his back and does violent things to my sanity, cargo shorts that should look tragic but somehow make his thighs even more sinful, and he’s got that laser-sharp focus on his face like packing is a competitive sport.
The man’s going to meet his team in Jacksonville, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he’s been here. With my family. For the Fourth of July. Eating my mom’s cobbler and laughing at Tony’s terrible Banana Ball jokes. Letting Rachel teach him how to make devilled eggs while Cal’s sat perched on the counter narrating like it was a cooking show.
He fit. Like he belonged here. Like he wasn’t a six-foot-something international rugby player with a reputation for breaking defensive lines and jawbones.
And hell, maybe I’m being soft, but watching him these past couple of days—seeing him talk to my mom about his own,leaning into my side during fireworks, ducking his head when my dad called him “son”—it’s been… a lot.
In the best fucking way.
I head inside, ducking through the screen door, and nearly run into my mom in the hallway. She’s holding a dish towel and looking way too composed for someone who just cleaned up after hosting a holiday for a shit-ton of people and two dogs.
“Morning, sweetheart,” she says, then leans in for a kiss on the cheek. “Coffee?”
I lift my mug. “Already caffeinated, thanks.”
She doesn’t move. “Cam all set?”
“Just about.” I scratch the back of my neck, glancing towards the door. “I’ll be driving him down to Jacksonville. He’s got to meet his team at the hotel.”
Mom nods, but I can see it coming—the question. The hesitation. That quiet sort of maternal worry that simmers behind her eyes, like she’s trying to measure my happiness with a thermometer she doesn’t quite trust.
“Brent,” she says gently, “can I talk to you for a moment before you go?”
My stomach drops a little. I nod.
She leads me into the front sitting room—cosy, neutral, the smell of lemon polish lingering in the air. I sit on the edge of the armchair like I’m back in high school waiting for a report card.
Mom perches opposite, wringing the towel. “You know I love that you brought Cam here,” she says softly. “We’re so happy to meet him. He’s… lovely.”
I nod. “He is.”
