Page 15 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

It’s well past ten, and the pub’s still humming, though there’s less noise and more warmth. But that might be something to do with Brent’s side being flush with mine. The back room’s half cleared out, the energy dialled down from “victory riot” to “low-key satisfaction.”

And my head’s buzzing, but not from the pint.

Brent is Cosmo’s brother.

Cosmo .

As in, the wild-card college hockey phenom who’d damn near stolen the show during that photoshoot last year.

I remember the day vividly. We were all there for this “global queer athlete” piece.

There were sprinters, more ice hockey players than I could shake a stick at, a football player—the proper British kind—who I’ve met up with a couple of times since, a retired cricketer who had zero time for anyone under the age of forty, and—of course—Cosmo.

That kid was a walking headline. Loud, charming, full of chaos and confidence, he spoke like a caffeinated sports commentator and acted like he was everyone’s hype man. The moment he walked in, I remember thinking, This kid’s going to take over the world or spontaneously combust trying.

He made half the room laugh, called the lighting guy “boss,” tried to get people to do choreographed shoulder pops mid-shoot, and got himself added to the group chat before we’d even left the building.

And yeah, he’s still in that chat. Still chaos incarnate.

We’ve got Olympic hopefuls in there. Amateur cyclists.

Quiet wrestlers. A lacrosse player who only responds in haikus.

Somehow, I’ve turned into one of the old farts in the group—lurking more than contributing—but it’s become something I value.

A rare space where I don’t have to be on.

Knowing Brent is connected to that—to them—loosens something tight inside my chest. Something I didn’t realise had been clamped down all night.

Maybe I can trust him.

It’s not just Cosmo’s reputation that matters—it’s how Brent talks about him.

Pride without ego. Warmth without bragging.

He isn’t riding his brother’s success; he’s just in his corner.

And I know what a big deal Cosmo is. I’ve seen the highlights online.

Sure, he hypes himself, but he backs it up. The kid’s got fire.

I catch myself smiling a little and turn towards Brent. We’re still close—thighs brushing. Always touching, but never too much.

“Cosmo’s… a character,” I say, voice pitched low.

Brent snorts into his drink. “Understatement of the year.”

“He keeps that chat alive, though. It’s… good, having that group. Bit of everything in there. Good kids like Cosmo, and old bastards like me.”

“You’re not that old,” Brent says, but he’s grinning, like he knows full well I’m going to roll my eyes. I do.

Still, the tension that had been wound so tight in my chest since the whistle blew? Since walking into this pub with Brent already inside, waiting? It eases. It’s not gone, but it’s better.

I clear my throat. “He ever deal with the media? Fans?”

Brent leans back slightly, nursing what’s left of his lager. “He’s pretty protected at college. The school’s good about that. Coaches, PR staff—his teammates have his back too. But as a family, we kind of made it our mission to look out for one another. Stay grounded. No bullshit.”

I nod, quiet for a beat.

“I miss them, though,” he says suddenly. His voice shifts—still open, but softer. “I don’t regret moving here. Not for a second. But being that far away from them? Some days that’s harder than I expected.”

That hits somewhere deep. I glance at him, wondering if I have a right to ask, but the words are already on my tongue. “Think you’ll ever go back? For good, I mean?”

He turns his head and looks right at me. I shouldn’t be holding my breath, but I am. Like something in me is waiting. Bracing.

“I don’t know,” he says after a pause. “I’ve got no set plans. I’ve been here a long time. It’s home now, in a weird way. Next year, I’ll apply for British citizenship.”

There’s a flicker in his voice—not hesitation, exactly, but something softer beneath the surface. Like he’s made peace with it. Like it still surprises him, calling another country home. Like part of him is still trying to mean it fully.

I blink. Something in me—something tangled and tightly guarded—unravels a little. It’s not just that he’s staying. It’s that he wants to. That this life, this place, is his. Even if sometimes, maybe, it still feels like he’s got one foot somewhere else.

I look at him too long, and when I do, I realise the truth is catching up with me. We’d agreed on friends. Tentative. Unspoken. But I’m attracted to him. And not just casually, and definitely not in that one-night way I’ve come to tolerate when the mood and the stars align.

This is different.

This is slower, warmer. This is a smile I want to keep earning. A voice I want in my ear when I’m walking home.

And that shit right there? That’s scary as fuck.

I’m still watching Brent. Still trying to process the whole potential British citizenship, that Cosmo’s his brother, and that I might actually like this man in a way that has nothing to do with simple physical attraction when I hear my name.

Loudly.

Twice.

“Crawford!”

I twist in my seat to find a few of my teammates waving me over—one in particular swaying a little too enthusiastically for comfort. Fuck.

I sigh, then glance at Brent. “Sorry,” I say, leaning in just enough to be heard. “Give me five?”

He nods, but I linger a second longer.

“And don’t—” I hesitate, then throw subtlety out the window. “Don’t go anywhere.”

His brows rise, just for a beat… like he wasn’t expecting that. But then that smile— that smile —breaks over his face. Confident. Warm. Easy in a way I’ll never be.

“I won’t,” he says.

God, help me.

I step away and push through the back room towards the noise.

The lads part a bit as I arrive, and I clock who the problem is immediately.

Briggs. He’s younger, just barely out of academy squad last season.

Big, full of talent, and currently three pints past his limit.

We’ve talked about keeping a low profile post-match.

We always talk about it. But somehow, this guy’s got the tact of a cymbal-playing monkey.

“Briggs,” I growl, already regretting this, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“Caaaam,” he sings, grinning wide and slinging an arm over my shoulders. “Captain. My capt’n. You’re so serious tonight.”

“That’s because you’re being a dickhead.”

“Just celebratin’. Celebratin’ third place!”

“We’re not done, you twat,” I mutter, dragging his arm off me. “Four more games. You do remember the calendar, yeah?”

He wobbles dramatically, then attempts a very uncoordinated heel click. “I remember! I remember… that you never let me have any fun!”

I rub a hand down my face. “You’re one beer away from me calling your mum.”

He pauses, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Then, out of fucking nowhere, he wraps his arms around me like I’m a goddamn therapy dog and mumbles, “I wish I was you.”

I blink. “What?”

He just hugs me harder, his face mashed into my shoulder.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask, trying to untangle his arms. But he stumbles sideways, and that’s when I realise I’m going to have to get him out of here before he knocks over a table or someone decides to record him for a laugh. “Right,” I mutter. “Home time, superstar.”

Before I can call for backup, a voice speaks at my side. “Need a hand?”

It’s Brent. Of course it is. And goddamn, he’s already stepping in, wrapping one arm around Briggs’s back, steadying him with surprising ease.

I glance at him, grateful. “You don’t have to?—”

“I know,” he says simply. “But I’ve got brothers too. Trust me, I’ve done this routine.”

We start hauling Briggs towards the back entrance. That’s when Briggs turns his head and blinks at Brent, like he’s just realised a whole new person is touching him. He stares hard, then slurs, “You’re hot.”

I damn near trip over my own feet.

Brent snorts but says nothing. He just keeps a firm grip on the guy.

My brain stutters. Briggs is… queer?

Is he?

He’s never said anything. Never hinted. But also, the kid’s private. Quiet. Intense when he’s not three drinks deep.

Briggs mutters again, more to himself, “Men suck. But not the good kind of suck. Just the… the shitty, disappointing, leave-you-on-read kind of suck.”

Brent bites back a laugh, while I’m busy trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is how I’m finding out about one of my teammates potentially being in the closet. In the middle of a pub, with the man I keep imagining naked keeping Briggs upright.

We make it to the exit, and I prop the door open as Brent guides Briggs into the cooling night air. I shake my head. “Jesus Christ.”

Brent glances over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just… wasn’t expecting that.”

He doesn’t say anything, just adjusts Briggs’s weight slightly as we start guiding him towards the car park. We’re halfway to my car when I catch the flash. It’s fast, just one flick of white light in the periphery, but it hits me like a body blow.

My head snaps around. My gut tightens. My shoulders go high and hard. And then I see him across the lot, standing behind a parked van, phone in hand. Not even a long-lens camera, just a phone held high. Opportunistic. Feral.

Pap.

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 hand still 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.