Page 63 of Full Tilt
The bus pullsinto the stadium parking lot, the engine’s hum fading as the vehicle comes to a stop. I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and make my way down the aisle. The atmosphere is heavy; no one speaks. As I step off the bus, I offer a quiet “Goodnight” to the group, but it’s met with silence. Unsurprisingly, no one is up for drinks—not that I’d go anyway.
Coach catches my eye as I head towards my car. He gives me a nod, and I approach him.
“Rough game,” he says.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without letting frustration seep into my voice.
“We’ll review the footage tomorrow,” he continues. “Get some rest.”
“Will do,” I reply, then turn towards the car park.
I stop walking when I see him—Brent, leaning against the hood of my car like he belongs there.
My breath catches. Not just because he looks good—he always looks good—but because I wasn’t expecting him. And even though a part of me wants to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in, another part instantly flinches, scanning the shadows. My eyes flick over the dark edges of the lot, half expecting a camera lens to catch the moment and spin it into something ugly.
He sees the way I pause. Maybe he even sees the way I look around, and it kills me that I’m doing that in the first place.
He doesn’t move, just says softly, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I murmur, too gruff. My voice is always like this when I’m wiped, but tonight it’s got more gravel than usual.
He straightens slowly, hands in his jacket pockets. “I didn’t want to just show up at your place.”
I nod, grateful for the respect even as I war with myself. Brent being here is both the best thing that could happen and the worst idea I can entertain. I shouldn’t let him in—not after a game like this. Not when the headlines are already questioning my leadership, my focus. Not when I’m not even sure who I am without the wins.
But I’m so fucking tired.
Not just physically. Deep in my bones, I ache with something heavier than exhaustion. I want him. Want his steadiness, his warmth, his quiet refusal to let me spiral alone. And it makes no sense. We’ve only known each other properly for a month—but that month has cracked something open in me.
And that’s the scariest part of all.
“I’m tired,” I say. It’s not rejection, not really. It’s a shield I hope he can read through.
He just smiles a little. “That’s okay.”
“I don’t mean….” I pause, unsure how to explain that I want him close but am afraid to need it. “It’s just been a shit night.”
“I know.” He steps forward—just a fraction of space, but it’s enough to feel the warmth of his body. Close but not crowding. “So let me be there. Not to fix it. Just to… be.”
And fuck, there it is again. The way he gets me.
I want to kiss him. My body leans into the idea, but I don’t trust the dark corners of this car park. I don’t trust the shadows not to have eyes. So instead, I breathe out a shaky “Yeah. Okay.”
His eyes soften. “I’ll follow you home.”
I nod and unlock the car, but my mind’s a mess of static. I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the wheel, staring straight ahead for a few seconds before starting the engine.
What am I doing? Letting him in like this. Letting him see me when I’m stripped bare. No pitch to dominate, no game plan to follow. Just me. Tired. Uncertain. Wanting.
And wanting… isn’t something I let myself feel often.
But Brent? He makes me feel it all. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe tonight, letting him in is the only thing keeping me from closing the door again—not just on him, but on this possibility we’ve somehow built together.
So I pull out of the lot, glancing in the mirror to see his headlights right behind me.
Still following. Still choosing me.
14
