Page 40 of Full Tilt
The bastard doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he just lowers his phone like it’s no big deal. But it is. I stop cold, one handstill wrapped around Briggs’s upper arm. I want to deck the scumbag. God, I want to walk over there and lay him out with one swing. No warning. Just years of bottled-up rage behind a fist and a fractured screen.
But I can’t.
Not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because if I do—if I lose it now—I’ll get fined by the club, maybe suspended, probably arrested. And that means more press. Exactly the thing I’ve been trying to avoid since I came out. Exactly what I can’t let happen.
Behind me, Brent moves without a word, like he’s already clocked the situation and read the temperature in my posture. He pulls a black baseball cap from his back pocket—something he must’ve shoved there earlier—and settles it on Briggs’s messy head with surprising care. The drunk idiot barely reacts, but the shadow from the cap helps.
Then Brent steps up, tucks his arm more securely around Briggs’s shoulders, and positions himself like a shield—a human barrier. There’s no hesitation in his movements, just calm, capable action.
I get the car door open, and together, we manage to pour Briggs into the back seat without drawing more attention. He slumps over the second he hits the upholstery as dead weight. He’s out cold.
I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the ground. My pulse is too high. My jaw aches from how tightly I’m clenching it. I don’t look at Brent as he climbs in beside me. The air inside the car goes tight, tense, every muscle in my body humming like a wire about to snap.
I slam the door, start the ignition, and peel out of the car park with more speed than I should.
The first few minutes are silent. Just the sound of tyres rolling over slick tarmac, the rattle of bottles shifting in the boot, and Briggs’s soft snoring in the back fill the space. The roads are mostly empty. It’s late enough that the shops are dark, the streetlights casting long shadows across the estates as we drive past. A cat darts under a parked car. The clouds have rolled in, blanketing the sky in soft grey, the moon diffused and distant.
Brent tries to talk once. Just a quiet attempt to ease the mood. “Hey, so… earlier. That was?—”
“Not now,” I say, too quickly. Too harshly.
He falls quiet and doesn’t push. He folds his hands in his lap and stares out the window, his profile outlined by the faint glow of passing lights. And now I feel like an arsehole. I know he was only trying to help. And he did help… without being asked, without drama. He just stepped in and made it better.
But my mind’s spinning. That flash of light feels like a detonator, like the start of something I can’t stop. I don’t know what that pap caught. If Briggs was in the frame. If Brent was. If I was close enough to be headline-worthy.
If tomorrow the internet’s going to see me in a quiet moment of vulnerability with a man I haven’t figured out how to talk about yet—never mind explain. And what if Briggs gets dragged into it? What if that flash caught a half-mumbled confession with a recording and a teammate mid-stumble, and suddenly I’ve failed him too?
Fifteen minutes of driving feels like a marathon. By the time we pull up outside Briggs’s shared house, the guilt is layered thick beneath my skin. I sit in the car, engine idling. Brent hasn’t said another word, and I can’t blame him.
I exhale hard and finally look at him. He’s already watching me. Quiet. Patient. But not hurt. Not angry. Just… waiting. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because I don’t know what thehell to say to the man who helped me tonight—and who I might already be ruining this with.
Briggs stirs the moment we park. “Whuh…?” he mumbles, head lolling forwards as I cut the engine.
“Welcome back, sunshine,” I mutter, climbing out.
Brent meets me at the other side, already helping ease the idiot upright and out of the car. Briggs manages to get his feet under him, though he’s still wobbly, blinking like a man pulled from a deep and unfortunate dream.
We shuffle up to the front door with his weight slung between us. I pat him down one-handed, muttering under my breath until I find his keys in the back pocket of his jeans. Inside, the hallway’s dim, the scent of something herbal and slightly stale lingering in the air.
“Briggs lives like a student,” I grumble.
“I like that you say that like it’s an insult,” Brent says, still supporting the guy’s weight. “Students are resourceful.”
“Students can’t hold their liquor.”
Brent snorts. “True.”
There’s a shuffle at the top of the stairs. A figure appears—sleep-ruffled, T-shirt in hand, sleep shorts slung low on lean hips. He squints down at us, rubbing a hand through his messy hair.
“Shit,” he mutters, clearly clocking the state of things. “Okay.” He yanks the tee over his head and starts down the stairs, bare feet thudding softly on the carpet.
That’s when I place him. “Kit,” I say. “Right?”
He nods, already eyeing Briggs with the practiced exhaustion of someone who’s seen this before. “What happened?”
I help shift Briggs a little higher, keeping him moving. “He’s sloshed. Passed out for a while in the car. Snoring like an engine.”
Kit sighs. “Brilliant. All right, can you get him to his room? First door on the right at the top. I’ll grab a bucket, water, and paracetamol.”
