Page 72 of Full Tilt
I huff out a laugh, toe off my trainers, and wander in behind him. “You mean the one I said I’d only drink if I was wearing a cashmere jumper and had a golden retriever named Winston?”
“That’s the one.” He grins, reaching into the fridge.
“Beer’s good.”
He hands me one, grabs one for himself, and nods towards the sofa. We settle there with our knees nearly touching, the air between us lighter than it was even five minutes ago. Still fragile, but no longer fraying at the edges.
We fall into that kind of silence that’s not empty—just full of things neither of us is quite ready to say aloud.
Brent turns his beer bottle in his hand, thumb skating the condensation. “So, I was gonna tell you earlier, but…” He gives a little shrug. “I looked at your States tour schedule you sent.”
My brows lift.
He doesn’t quite meet my gaze. “I’ll definitely be there,” Brent says, quietly now. “That week. The same time as you. It overlaps.”
I stare at him, warmth blooming low in my gut. “You going to come to the game for sure?”
He shrugs, casual—but I catch the flicker of something more in his eyes. “Well, if the offer’s still there and you want me to come, and if there are still tickets left.”
“Right.” I try to match his nonchalance, but my mouth twitches into something dangerously close to a smile. “No pressure, but I think I can swing tickets for you and your folks if you really think they’ll be interested.”
“Yeah?” He leans back and relaxes when I nod. “Wouldn’t want to distract you from all the important ball fumbling you’ve got lined up.”
I roll my eyes and throw a cushion at him. He dodges easily, grinning, and I shake my head, but I don’t deny the flush of warmth at the thought of him sitting in the crowd. Of him watching me play.
Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he’s already looked at the schedule. That kind of consideration… it does something to me. Not flashy, not loud, just… solid. Intentional.
“You don’t have to,” I say, quieter now. “Come to the game, I mean.”
“I know,” he replies, voice matching mine in tone. “But I want to.”
The words settle like something soft and heavy in my chest. I take a long breath, anchoring myself in the moment. Brent is here, beer in hand, every fibre of him still a little on edge from the press bullshit earlier—but still here. Still steady.
I don’t know what this thing is we’re building. We haven’t defined it and haven’t tried to. But I know how it feels, and I know I don’t want it to stop.
Brent sets his bottle on the table, turning to me with that bright gaze of his—softened now, edges gone quiet. “You eaten?”
My stomach tightens. I shake my head, though I’m not really thinking about food.
He arches a brow. “You want me to cook something? Or maybe… shower first?”
There’s nothing loaded in the question. Nothing obvious. Just that calm, smooth tone he always uses, like he’s offering me a hand instead of a trap. But the way his eyes dip—slow, warm—the curve of his mouth barely lifting? Yeah. I know where this is going.
And fuck, I want it to go there.
Still, I play it cool, the corner of my mouth tugging up. “Pretty sure I don’t stink. No training today.”
“Mm,” he hums, pushing off the couch and standing in front of me. He looks down, eyes skimming over me like I’m something he wants to unwrap slowly. “Still. Hot water. Steam. My hands on your skin.”
My breath catches.
He grins, but it’s not cocky. It’s quiet. Earnest. “Could be nice.”
The lump in my throat is stupidly large for how simple the words are. I nod, and he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. Just there—soft and warm and nothing like the urgency that usually lights me up.
This is something else, gentle and intimate.
God help me, it makes my chest ache.
