Page 37 of Full Tilt
I start to wonder if I’ve just accidentally ended our friendship, potential sleeve work, and the chance of ever seeing him shirtless again, all in one well-meaning question.
And then, he unfreezes, eyes widening just enough to register shock. “Wait. Cosmo?”
I nod. “Yeah. Pain in my ass. Talks like he’s got his own podcast, never stops moving, allergic to shirts.”
Camden stares for half a second longer, then lets out a low breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “No shit,” he mutters, almost to himself.
I grin, some of the unease in my gut unravelling. “You know him?”
He huffs—actually huffs—and shakes his head, the tension in his shoulders practically melting on the spot. “Yeah. He never shuts the fuck up in the chat. Always tagging people in memes at two in the morning.”
“Sounds about right,” I say. “Once sent me a playlist titled ‘You’d Be Hotter with a Moustache.’”
Camden chuckles—a real one this time. Not quite full-bodied, but enough to make me feel like I’ve won something I didn’t know I was competing for.
“Jesus,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That kid’s everywhere.”
I laugh. “He’s like glitter. Gets into everything and impossible to shake.”
Camden looks at me again, and this time there’s something different in his eyes. Not fully relaxed—he’s too tightly wound for that. But there’s less guard. Less steel. His voice, when he speaks again, is warmer than I’ve ever heard it. “Small fucking world.”
“No kidding.”
He shakes his head again, his smile staying in place. “Cosmo’s your kid brother.”
“For better or worse,” I say with a shrug.
And in this moment, he feels closer. Like the wall’s still there, but the gate’s cracked open just enough to see through. And damn, this version of Camden Crawford? Quietly amused, maybe even a little at ease? This version might be my new favourite addiction.
9
Camden
It’s well past ten,and the pub’s still humming, though there’s less noise and more warmth. But that might be something to do with Brent’s side being flush with mine. The back room’s half cleared out, the energy dialled down from “victory riot” to “low-key satisfaction.”
And my head’s buzzing, but not from the pint.
Brent is Cosmo’s brother.
Cosmo.
As in, the wild-card college hockey phenom who’d damn near stolen the show during that photoshoot last year. I remember the day vividly. We were all there for this “global queer athlete” piece. There were sprinters, more ice hockey players than I could shake a stick at, a football player—the proper British kind—who I’ve met up with a couple of times since, a retired cricketer who had zero time for anyone under the age of forty, and—of course—Cosmo.
That kid was a walking headline. Loud, charming, full of chaos and confidence, he spoke like a caffeinated sports commentator and acted like he was everyone’s hype man. The moment he walked in, I remember thinking,This kid’s going to take over the world or spontaneously combust trying.
He made half the room laugh, called the lighting guy “boss,” tried to get people to do choreographed shoulder pops mid-shoot, and got himself added to the group chat before we’d even left the building.
And yeah, he’s still in that chat. Still chaos incarnate. We’ve got Olympic hopefuls in there. Amateur cyclists. Quiet wrestlers. A lacrosse player who only responds in haikus. Somehow, I’ve turned into one of the old farts in the group—lurking more than contributing—but it’s become something I value. A rare space where I don’t have to be on.
Knowing Brent is connected to that—to them—loosens something tight inside my chest. Something I didn’t realise had been clamped down all night.
Maybe I can trust him.
It’s not just Cosmo’s reputation that matters—it’s how Brent talks about him. Pride without ego. Warmth without bragging. He isn’t riding his brother’s success; he’s just in his corner. And I know what a big deal Cosmo is. I’ve seen the highlights online. Sure, he hypes himself, but he backs it up. The kid’s got fire.
I catch myself smiling a little and turn towards Brent. We’re still close—thighs brushing. Always touching, but never too much.
“Cosmo’s… a character,” I say, voice pitched low.
