Page 89 of Full Tilt
“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“Nope.” He leans in, our foreheads brushing, voice warm against my skin. “But I want to find out. With you.”
And that’s it. That’s the moment I know I’m completely, ridiculously, head-over-everything for this man.
I slide my arms tighter around him, bury my face in the side of his neck, and breathe him in like he’s the thing that’s been keeping me grounded all night. “Fuck yes,” I mumble. “Come home with me, Camden Crawford. Let’s blow some shit up in the name of freedom.”
He laughs—rich and real—and pulls me in even closer.
“Deal.”
We surviveour long-ass flight from Heathrow to Atlanta, though “survive” is generous. I think Cam might’ve threatened a gate agent with death-by-scrum when we almost missed our connection. But hey, we made it. He even upgraded me to business class so I wouldn’t be flying solo in economy. Talk about spoiled. And yeah, fine, I may have gotten a little misty-eyed at the gesture, though I blamed it on cabin pressure.
By the time we land in Savannah, it’s late on the third. The air hits us the second we step outside—thick and sticky with Southern heat even at night—and I swear Cam makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a “what the fuck.”
Tony’s already at the pick-up zone, leaning against his bright yellow Jeep like he’s been plucked straight out of a Banana Ball infomercial. He spots us and takes off at a jog, a blur of yellow and wild energy. Before I can even drop my suitcase, he’s got me in a full-body hug that lifts me half off the ground.
“Three years, you asshole,” he says, voice thick. “Three freakin’ years.”
I laugh, clinging just as hard. “You’re the one who moved to the circus.”
He pulls back, eyes a little glassy, though he’s quick to wipe at one. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up. I missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
Only then does he turn to Cam, who’s hovering like he’s not sure if he should look polite or protective.
Tony grins wide, clapping eyes on him. “You’re even taller than Brent said. Love that for you. You a hugger or a handshake guy?”
Cam blinks. “Uh, whichever keeps you from tackling me.”
Tony grins wider. “Oh, buddy.” And before Cam can say another word, he’s yanked into a hug too. Cam stiffens for half a second, but to his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Much.
“You’re all right,” Tony declares, pulling back. “Strong silent type. Total upgrade from Brent’s ex in high school who collected swords.”
Cam side-eyes me. I shrug. “It was a phase.”
Tony just throws our bags in the trunk like nothing’s changed—and in the best way, maybe nothing has.
On the drive back to the house, Cam keeps glancing out the window like he’s trying to orient himself via humidity and pine trees. Tony, meanwhile, launches into a full-blown Banana Ball explanation before Cam can ask. Which he doesn’t. He looks confused enough just by the name.
“It’s like baseball,” Tony says, hands flying everywhere. “But if baseball had a baby with a circus and then raised it on a steady diet of TikTok and chaos.”
Cam blinks. “I… don’t know what that means.”
Tony looks offended. “Mate. There’s dancing. Uniforms are optional. We do backflips mid-play. Sometimes we play in kilts.”
Cam turns slowly in his seat to look at me. “Is this a real sport?”
I snort. “Sadly, yes. And he’s not bad at it.”
“‘Not bad’? I’m a fuckin’ legend,” Tony says.
Cam’s trying so hard not to laugh I can see the vein in his neck bulging.
Then Tony, curious now, glances back at him. “So, what about you? I’ve watched rugby. Still don’t get the rules. You a linebacker or something?”
Cam’s lips twitch. “I’m a tighthead prop.”
