Page 16 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Behind me, Brent moves without a word, like he’s already clocked the situation and read the temperature in my posture.

He pulls a black baseball cap from his back pocket—something he must’ve shoved there earlier—and settles it on Briggs’s messy head with surprising care.

The drunk idiot barely reacts, but the shadow from the cap helps.

Then Brent steps up, tucks his arm more securely around Briggs’s shoulders, and positions himself like a shield—a human barrier. There’s no hesitation in his movements, just calm, capable action.

I get the car door open, and together, we manage to pour Briggs into the back seat without drawing more attention. He slumps over the second he hits the upholstery as dead weight. He’s out cold.

I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the ground.

My pulse is too high. My jaw aches from how tightly I’m clenching it.

I don’t look at Brent as he climbs in beside me.

The air inside the car goes tight, tense, every muscle in my body humming like a wire about to snap.

I slam the door, start the ignition, and peel out of the car park with more speed than I should.

The first few minutes are silent. Just the sound of tyres rolling over slick tarmac, the rattle of bottles shifting in the boot, and Briggs’s soft snoring in the back fill the space.

The roads are mostly empty. It’s late enough that the shops are dark, the streetlights casting long shadows across the estates as we drive past. A cat darts under a parked car.

The clouds have rolled in, blanketing the sky in soft grey, the moon diffused and distant.

Brent tries to talk once. Just a quiet attempt to ease the mood. “Hey, so… earlier. That was?—”

“Not now,” I say, too quickly. Too harshly.

He falls quiet and doesn’t push. He folds his hands in his lap and stares out the window, his profile outlined by the faint glow of passing lights.

And now I feel like an arsehole. I know he was only trying to help.

And he did help… without being asked, without drama. He just stepped in and made it better.

But my mind’s spinning. That flash of light feels like a detonator, like the start of something I can’t stop. I don’t know what that pap caught. If Briggs was in the frame. If Brent was. If I was close enough to be headline-worthy.

If tomorrow the internet’s going to see me in a quiet moment of vulnerability with a man I haven’t figured out how to talk about yet—never mind explain.

And what if Briggs gets dragged into it?

What if that flash caught a half-mumbled confession with a recording and a teammate mid-stumble, and suddenly I’ve failed him too?

Fifteen minutes of driving feels like a marathon. By the time we pull up outside Briggs’s shared house, the guilt is layered thick beneath my skin. I sit in the car, engine idling. Brent hasn’t said another word, and I can’t blame him.

I exhale hard and finally look at him. He’s already watching me. Quiet. Patient. But not hurt. Not angry. Just… waiting. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because I don’t know what the hell to say to the man who helped me tonight—and who I might already be ruining this with.

Briggs stirs the moment we park. “Whuh…?” he mumbles, head lolling forwards as I cut the engine.

“Welcome back, sunshine,” I mutter, climbing out.

Brent meets me at the other side, already helping ease the idiot upright and out of the car. Briggs manages to get his feet under him, though he’s still wobbly, blinking like a man pulled from a deep and unfortunate dream.

We shuffle up to the front door with his weight slung between us. I pat him down one-handed, muttering under my breath until I find his keys in the back pocket of his jeans. Inside, the hallway’s dim, the scent of something herbal and slightly stale lingering in the air.

“Briggs lives like a student,” I grumble.

“I like that you say that like it’s an insult,” Brent says, still supporting the guy’s weight. “Students are resourceful.”

“Students can’t hold their liquor.”

Brent snorts. “True.”

There’s a shuffle at the top of the stairs. A figure appears—sleep-ruffled, T-shirt in hand, sleep shorts slung low on lean hips. He squints down at us, rubbing a hand through his messy hair.

“Shit,” he mutters, clearly clocking the state of things. “Okay.” He yanks the tee over his head and starts down the stairs, bare feet thudding softly on the carpet.

That’s when I place him. “Kit,” I say. “Right?”

He nods, already eyeing Briggs with the practiced exhaustion of someone who’s seen this before. “What happened?”

I help shift Briggs a little higher, keeping him moving. “He’s sloshed. Passed out for a while in the car. Snoring like an engine.”

Kit sighs. “Brilliant. All right, can you get him to his room? First door on the right at the top. I’ll grab a bucket, water, and paracetamol.”

I nod, and Kit peels off towards the kitchen like a man on autopilot.

“Right then,” Brent says gently, turning back to Briggs. “Let’s go, champ. One foot at a time.”

As we start the climb, Brent keeps up a calm, low stream of encouragement.

“That’s it. Another step. There we go. You’re nailing this, mate.”

I glance over. “You’ve done this before.”

He grins, not looking away from the stairs. “First time I’ve ever lived alone. Before this, I always shared a house. Usually with people who couldn’t hold their liquor. Or their dignity.”

We finally reach the top, and I nudge open the bedroom door with my foot. It’s surprisingly tidy in here. We steer Briggs to the bed and more or less pour him onto it. He groans and rolls over.

Kit appears with practiced timing, holding a glass of water, a blister pack of pills, and a plastic bin that’s seen better days.

“Thanks,” I say, stepping aside.

“I’ll take it from here,” Kit says with a sigh. “Again.” He doesn’t sound angry, just tired and used to it.

I nod towards Briggs. “Tell him I’ll call tomorrow.”

Kit gives me a tight smile. “Will do. Thanks for getting him home.”

Brent and I slip out quietly, shutting the door behind us.

Down the stairs, out the front, back to the car.

And everything’s heavy again. The pap flash replays in my mind like a warning siren.

Briggs’s drunken confession sits uneasily in my chest. My own mood, already a minefield, just keeps dropping.

I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the wheel, my knuckles going white.

Brent doesn’t speak at first. I think he knows better than to try. The drive is quiet.

Devon at night is low-lit and stretched out—long roads, soft glows from windows, hedges slipping by like silent sentinels. A few foxes dart out of view. The occasional porch light flickers in the misty air.

Brent glances at me a few times. I feel it. The question he wants to ask. The mood he wants to lift. He tries once. Says something—light, probably funny. I don’t even catch all of it. My head’s swimming too much.

I grunt some half-hearted reply, and he goes quiet again.

The silence thickens, and I hate that I’ve made it this way. What I should be doing is thanking him. He’s helped twice tonight without flinching. Because he’s been patient, and good, and exactly the kind of person you want at your side when things go sideways.

And yet here I am, gritting my teeth and shutting down. And all because the pap rattled me. Because Briggs might be struggling. Because I’m not just a captain or a prop or a public name—I’m a fuck-up when it comes to trusting people with my heart.

Because Brent… he’s not like the others.

He’s not a hook-up. He’s not a fling. He’s not even a harmless flirt. I’m interested. Big-time interested. And it’s been weeks—not even two—not months, which is barely any time at all. But already, there’s something about him—his steadiness, his wit, the way he sees me but doesn’t push.

I want more. And that is the scariest fucking thing of all.

The quiet in the car is too much. I’ve driven longer distances in worse moods with less sleep and more injuries. But this? This silence? It grates.

Brent’s beside me, watching the hedgerows blur past his window, lit by the rhythm of streetlamps and the warm glow of houses tucked behind stone walls and clipped hedges. We’re back in the city now. The streets are tighter, the air heavier, yet still we don’t speak.

I grip the wheel firmer. It doesn’t help. I finally say, “I’ll take you home.”

He nods but still doesn’t say anything. It shouldn’t bother me—hell, I spend half my life wishing people would stop talking—but something about his silence feels… off. Wary. Weighed.

I glance over once. He’s not brooding, exactly. But I can see him working through something. Lips pressed together, eyes distant, that little crease between his brows deeper than usual.

I know that look. He’s debating.

Something in me twitches and tightens. “Spit it out,” I mutter.

He turns, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“You’re dying to say something. I’ve been a moody arsehole all night. Might as well let you get it over with.”

His expression shifts, but not into the exasperated glare I was expecting.

Not disappointment or frustration. No. He smiles .

It’s soft, even, practically bloody serene.

How someone with a lip ring, an eyebrow piercing, and a constellation of hoops in one ear can look serene is beyond me, but somehow, he manages it.

Then, casually, like we’re talking about nothing more than a cup of tea, he says, “I’m happy to go home with you.”

I swerve slightly, correct immediately, and swallow hard. “Jesus,” I mutter, hands re-tightening on the wheel.

“But not,” he says, his grin growing, “if it’s going to get us in a car wreck.”

I breathe out, sharp and shaky. My shoulders still haven’t unclenched. I should let it go. Should let him laugh it off and move on. But the question builds, hot and itchy under my skin.