Page 55 of Full Tilt
My chest tightens, nerves crawling across my skin. Maybe he sees it, maybe he just feels it, but Brent doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions. He just glides past my awkward moment with easy grace, peeling open the food containers and settling onto the stool next to me.
“Here you go,” he says with a smirk. “Breakfast first. Existential spirals later.”
It makes me laugh—quiet and short, but real. I shuffle beside him, our thighs bumping. I’m still buzzing from Cosmo’s messages, still reeling, and still stunned. But maybe… just maybe I’m not dreading what comes next.
Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I’m kind of looking forward to it. I don’t even care if it makes me a fickle arsehole that all I needed was a good dicking to leave myself open for more. The ache is worth it.
12
Brent
Mondays and Tuesdaysare my official days off, but I can pretty much pick and choose my hours. And with the way things have been going—and Thursdays being Camden’s almost guaranteed day off—I’m kinda considering reworking my schedule to spend time with him.
That’s if he wants to, which… considering both Monday and Tuesday ended with me tangled in his sheets after he called to say he was home, I’m hoping he’s keen to spend more than a frantic few hours with me.
Every time we’ve hooked up, it’s been a trembling balance of fun and intense—impressive really, the way he seesaws between the two so effortlessly. He’ll have me laughing one minute, breathless the next, and completely unravelled by the time we’re done.
But it’s not just the sex.
It’s the way he watches me when I’m talking, really listening. The way he keeps trying to hold back something warm behind those guarded eyes, like he’s just waiting for the moment it all gets taken away. It makes me want to prove him wrong—over and over again.
I’m on my way to his flat now—he texted this morning asking if I was still free tonight, followed by “no pressure,” as though I wasn’t already half in love with the way he’s started to pick up on my constant use of “no pressure” before doing something wildly vulnerable. Like asking to see me on a weekday.
I bring a couple of beers in my bag just in case, and when he opens the door, I’m hit again with that quiet warmth that somehow lingers in his space. His flat smells like whatever detergent he uses and something woodsy and clean. He looks freshly showered and already barefoot. My brain short-circuits a little, because it’s such a small detail—but weirdly intimate.
“Hey,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.
“Hey yourself.” I grin, brushing past him. “You surviving your week so far?”
He groans. “Barely. The physio has me doing extra rotational work after training. Apparently, thirty-one means I’m made of glass.”
I laugh. “You’re the fittest piece of glass I’ve ever seen.”
Camden rolls his eyes but his mouth twitches at the corners, and it feels like a small win. We head to the kitchen, and I hand over the beers, sliding onto a bar-stool while he grabs glasses.
“You’d think with how much you train, they’d let up a little,” I say.
“Not with four games left in the season.” He opens one beer and sets it in front of me, then leans against the counter with his. “We’re still third in the table, but it’s tight. Every game could change things.”
“Do you still get that nervous energy before a match?”
Camden tilts his head. “Not nervous, exactly. More like… hyper-focused. Like everything else gets pushed to the background.”
I nod, soaking it in. “So that’s why you go quiet after a game? Recalibrating?”
“Partly.” He shrugs, his voice softer now. “Also just… being around people all day takes it out of me. I love the lads, but I’m not wired for noise twenty-four-seven.”
“Same,” I say. “Which is hilarious considering I work in a tattoo shop with music blaring and clients oversharing.”
That earns me a real laugh, deep and low, and something in my chest settles. We chat like that for a while—about training, teammates, the stress of press deadlines and social obligations. He asks about my shop, about my ambitions. I tell him more about the six-month buy-in window, and how I’m leaning towards taking the plunge.
“You’d be great,” he says simply, as if it’s a fact, not a compliment.
It catches me off-guard. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks.”
Later, we migrate to the couch, beers in hand. The television plays in the background, muted and forgotten. Our conversation slows into easy stretches of quiet and little touches—his knee brushing mine, the warmth of his arm just close enough to feel without crowding. He’s softer like this, more himself.
A thought tugs at me, one I’ve been carrying since that night outside the pub. I glance over at him, tentative. “Hey… can I ask you something?”
