Page 39 of Full Tilt
“Caaaam,” he sings, grinning wide and slinging an arm over my shoulders. “Captain. My capt’n. You’re so serious tonight.”
“That’s because you’re being a dickhead.”
“Just celebratin’. Celebratin’ third place!”
“We’re not done, you twat,” I mutter, dragging his arm off me. “Four more games. You do remember the calendar, yeah?”
He wobbles dramatically, then attempts a very uncoordinated heel click. “I remember! I remember… that you never let me have any fun!”
I rub a hand down my face. “You’re one beer away from me calling your mum.”
He pauses, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Then, out of fucking nowhere, he wraps his arms around me like I’m a goddamn therapy dog and mumbles, “I wish I was you.”
I blink. “What?”
He just hugs me harder, his face mashed into my shoulder.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask, trying to untangle his arms. But he stumbles sideways, and that’s when I realise I’m going to have to get him out of here before he knocks over a table or someone decides to record him for a laugh. “Right,” I mutter. “Home time, superstar.”
Before I can call for backup, a voice speaks at my side. “Need a hand?”
It’s Brent. Of course it is. And goddamn, he’s already stepping in, wrapping one arm around Briggs’s back, steadying him with surprising ease.
I glance at him, grateful. “You don’t have to?—”
“I know,” he says simply. “But I’ve got brothers too. Trust me, I’ve done this routine.”
We start hauling Briggs towards the back entrance. That’s when Briggs turns his head and blinks at Brent, like he’s justrealised a whole new person is touching him. He stares hard, then slurs, “You’re hot.”
I damn near trip over my own feet.
Brent snorts but says nothing. He just keeps a firm grip on the guy.
My brain stutters.Briggs is… queer?
Is he?
He’s never said anything. Never hinted. But also, the kid’s private. Quiet. Intense when he’s not three drinks deep.
Briggs mutters again, more to himself, “Men suck. But not the good kind of suck. Just the… the shitty, disappointing, leave-you-on-read kind of suck.”
Brent bites back a laugh, while I’m busy trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is how I’m finding out about one of my teammates potentially being in the closet. In the middle of a pub, with the man I keep imagining naked keeping Briggs upright.
We make it to the exit, and I prop the door open as Brent guides Briggs into the cooling night air. I shake my head. “Jesus Christ.”
Brent glances over. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.”
He doesn’t say anything, just adjusts Briggs’s weight slightly as we start guiding him towards the car park. We’re halfway to my car when I catch the flash. It’s fast, just one flick of white light in the periphery, but it hits me like a body blow.
My head snaps around. My gut tightens. My shoulders go high and hard. And then I see him across the lot, standing behind a parked van, phone in hand. Not even a long-lens camera, just a phone held high. Opportunistic. Feral.
Pap.
