Page 104 of Full Tilt
Jay:
You did. And you still are.
The screen blurs a bit, and I blink quickly, then type one more message.
Me:
Thanks, Jay. Truly. I’ll see you there.
I set the phone down, my chest full and tight in a way that feels… good. Like something is settling into place. Like maybe all this—the pressure, the spotlight, the fear—has been worth it.
And hell, maybe that’s why I came out in the first place. For more than myself. For guys like Jay. For the next generation.
I step out of the locker room and find Brent waiting just outside the media area, laughing at something one of the press coordinators says. He spots me instantly, and that grin softens.
This is why I keep going.
This is what I’m playing for.
The media have been ushered back out to the field for the post-match photo ops with the team. It’s a PR thing. “Grow the sport, show off the international camaraderie,” and all that. Still, I don’t mind. Our opponents were solid players and good guys. We’d even all shared a buffet dinner last night at a hotel conference room. It had been loud, chaotic, and surprisingly fun. I’d spent most of it trying to keep up with the jokes and the low-key trash talk.
And yeah… Pen.
Pen is back again. Number 14. American. Fast as hell. And apparently now the king of flirt. He’d been subtle at dinner. A few extra-long glances. A wink when I refilled my drink. A low laugh when I accidentally dropped my fork. But now? Now, it’s like he’s on a damn mission.
He leans in when we pose for the team photos, his arm brushing mine. “That was a hell of a try, Crawford.”
“Thanks,” I reply, trying not to look like I’ve swallowed my tongue.
“You always move like that? Or were you just showing off for me?”
Jesus Christ.
I glance towards the edge of the field where Brent stands, talking to one of the Seagulls staff who tagged along on the trip.He’s in sunglasses, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, posture relaxed, mouth curved into that smug, unreadable half-smile.
Fuck. He’s seen this.
Pen follows my gaze and stills. “The fuck?” he mutters. Then, louder, he hollers, “Brent Parks?”
Brent, who clearly didn’t catch the first part, lifts his chin, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to place him. Then his brows shoot up.
“No fucking way. Luke Penby?”
Pen—or apparently Luke—grins wide. “The hell are you doing here, man? The twins here?”
“Nah,” Brent says, stepping closer, shaking his head in disbelief. “Cal and Tony have a schedule clash. I can’t believe you’re here. The twins always said you were a menace. Looks like that hasn’t changed.”
Pen shrugs one shoulder. “I was thirteen and high on Gatorade most of the time.”
Then, like it’s nothing, like it’s just Tuesday, he smirks and says, “Damn, Brent. You’re hot AF now.”
And that’s about all I need to hear.
I step forwards and wrap an arm around Brent’s waist, yanking him flush to my side with a possessiveness I don’t bother hiding. “Easy there, mate.”
Brent laughs under his breath but leans into me, his body warm against mine. “Cam,” he murmurs. “You all right?”
“Nope,” I mutter. “You’ve got ex–boy-band energy staring at you like he wants dessert, and I’m not in the mood to share.”
