Page 21 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

I wake with my face pressed to warm skin and my arm flung across a solid chest. My leg is tangled with another—his—and there’s a steady thrum of breath against my hair. Brent.

I blink slowly, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light. It’s quiet. Still. The hum of the city muffled by the thick windows and the stillness between us. I don’t move.

His body is a furnace, his arm a heavy, secure band across my waist. I breathe him in—skin, sweat, something warm and clean beneath it all—and wait for the panic. Wait for the usual thud of regret to settle into my chest.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, I feel… safe. Grounded, even.

His cock is hard against my thigh, and the thought hits me like a freight train: I want to taste him.

The idea itself stuns me. Not the wanting—I’ve wanted him from the moment he shook my hand and smiled like he knew what to do with someone like me—but the impulse, the intimacy, this isn’t who I am.

I don’t do overnights. I don’t do sleepy cuddling and soft thoughts about waking someone up with a blow job.

And yet… here I am, clinging to him like I’ve done it a hundred times before.

I’m so lost in my own head I don’t even realise he’s awake until he speaks, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re thinking far too hard this morning.”

I freeze. “Shit, sorry.” I start to pull back, flustered.

But his arm tightens around me, dragging me even closer. “Nope. Stay put,” he murmurs.

And fuck, I melt into him. “Morning,” I croak, my throat dry, heart loud in my ears.

He shifts just enough to find my mouth and presses a kiss to it—soft, lazy, sweet. The kind of kiss that makes my toes curl and my chest go all warm and useless. It’s not hungry. Not demanding. Just… affection, poured straight from him into me.

I’m a puddle of goddamn goo.

“Morning,” he replies against my lips. He kisses me again—soft and unhurried—then rolls back enough to tuck a knuckle beneath my jaw. “What’s the plan today?” he asks, his voice still husky with sleep but laced with curiosity.

I blink slowly, brain sluggish. “Uh… Sunday recovery. No training. You?”

He stretches with a low, satisfied noise. “I’ve got a client this afternoon. Few hours from now.”

“Plenty of time for breakfast,” I murmur, then wince. “Except I have, like, no breakfast food.”

Brent stretches, his stomach letting out a quiet growl. “Okay, how about we go grab some breakfast? There’s a place around the corner I saw yesterday—does a full English. Not sure if it’s any good, though.”

I go still. Out. In public. With him.

The panic is instant—tight and cold, latching on to my ribs before I can stop it. Not because I don’t want to be seen with him, but because I do. And what that might mean. What it might look like.

Brent notices, because of course he does. His smile softens, and he immediately reroutes, casual as anything. “Or,” he says, voice easy, “I can head out, grab something, and bring it back here.”

I blink, caught off-guard by the pivot, and the fact that it came without judgement, without a pause. Just instinct and care.

Before I can speak, he shifts closer and presses a kiss to my temple. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “I get it.”

I glance up at him—at those eyes that always seem to see more than I want to give away. He’s not hurt. Not offended. Just… steady.

And somehow, in the quiet weight of that look, I believe him. He really does get it.

Before I can respond, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Then again. And again.

He sighs. “That’ll be the family group chat blowing up.” He stretches to grab his jeans, completely naked as he steps out of bed. And I—Christ—I almost choke.

The morning sun is cutting through the blinds in long golden stripes, laying over the lines of his back, his broad shoulders, the dip of his spine.

The faint sheen of sleep-warmed skin glows under it, and when he leans to dig his phone out of his jeans pocket, every muscle shifts in harmony.

I’m not proud of the strangled noise I make.

He turns, grinning, and my gaze catches on the flash of metal through his nipple—how the hell did I miss that?—and then lower, at ink wrapped around his hips. And then lower still.

“Tony,” he says, scrolling. “One of the twins. It’s the family chat. He’s trying to organise Fourth of July stuff already. Says I’m banned from bailing this year.”

“You go back for it all the time?” I ask, surprised by how normal the question sounds.

“I try to every other year,” he says, “which isn’t always possible. It’s kind of a Parks tradition. BBQs, family chaos… all that good shit. Last year I skipped because of my schedule. I think they’re holding it against me.”

He smiles down at the message, and I watch it transform his whole face. It’s unfair—how good-looking he is when he’s like this. All unguarded and gorgeous, standing in my bedroom like he belongs.

I tear my gaze away before I embarrass myself further.

He tosses the phone back onto his jeans and pads over to the bed, slipping under the covers again like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “So,” he says, settling beside me, his tone light, “what’s your breakfast order?”

And just like that, it’s easy again. Quiet. Real. And even if I’m not sure what this is, we’re finding a rhythm I’m not ready to give up just yet.

“I could definitely eat,” I say, trying for nonchalant even though my heart’s still pounding from watching him stand naked in morning light like some sort of sin incarnate. “Full English? Maybe something sweet. Whatever you bring back, I’ll eat.”

Brent arches an eyebrow, smug smile curving his lips. “That sounded dangerously close to innuendo.”

“I’m not denying it.” I smirk and nudge him with my knee. “Now go. Feed me, tattoo man.”

He leans down and kisses me—another one of those soft, slow, almost reverent presses of lips that’s way too much for a morning after. Way too much for something we’ve never actually named.

And then he’s up, stretching, tugging his clothes back on, and disappearing out the door with a casual “Be back in twenty.”

The flat is suddenly quiet without him, and I’m not sure I like that.

I exhale and reach for my own phone, left on the bedside table and still plugged in from last night.

The screen lights up with a few training reminders, a message from our media guy checking on Briggs after last night’s debacle—honestly, I’m not even surprised he knows; Davey seems to know everything—and a couple of texts from Lachie—one of which is just a single rainbow emoji. Subtle.

I don’t reply.

Instead, I open the Love the Game group chat, suddenly needing something familiar.

It’s still wild to me that I’m in this thing—a whole group of queer athletes from around the world, from all levels and all sports, trying to survive the chaos of sport and identity and media.

It’s not perfect, but it’s a lifeline sometimes.

The kind of thing I didn’t know I needed until I had it.

Still, today, opening the chat feels… weird. Knowing Cosmo’s in there. Cosmo Parks. Brent’s baby brother. A kid I’ve shared more conversations with than I can count. Who’s asked me for advice. Who I’ve offered encouragement to. Who’s a damn good ice hockey player and a decent human to boot.

And now I’ve fucked his brother and am currently waiting on breakfast in bed with said brother. Not that I’m ever telling Cosmo that.

The last flurry of messages is from yesterday morning. Nothing to do with me—just the usual chatter.

Connor:

Still think it’s complete bollocks they call it “soccer” over there. I refuse.

Ferris:

Says the guy actually FROM England. You don’t get to judge.

Connor:

Exactly because I’m from England. It’s football. End of.

Cosmo:

I’m just here for the chaos. Also, someone please tell me it’s okay to fake an injury and bail tomorrow.

Connor:

Permission granted. Pull a hammy. Be dramatic.

Ferris:

Wow. The moral compass in this chat is so broken.

Cosmo:

That’s on my brothers. They’re the worst influences.

Cosmo:

One of them sent me a video of a raccoon stealing a bottle of whiskey this morning. So like… maybe he’s improving?

My lips twitch. It’s a dumb throwaway line, but something about it punches me right in the chest.

One of them. That could be Brent.

I’ve read Cosmo’s name in this chat a hundred times. Shared GIFs. Advice. Late-night rants. I’ve probably sent him stupid voice notes after away matches. I’ve even talked to him in the flesh.

And now I’ve kissed his brother senseless. Touched him everywhere. Let him touch me back.

The guilt shouldn’t be this sharp. I didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did Brent. But it still feels like I’m holding a secret in both hands and wondering when it’ll spill.

I exhale, let the phone drop to the bed beside me, and scrub a hand over my face.

The flat smells faintly like Brent’s skin, my muscles ache in the best way, and if I close my eyes, I can still feel the way his fingers traced every inch of me last night like he was memorising a map.

And yet… here I am. Spiralling.

I’m so good at that.

My phone buzzes.

Brent: Your full English is incoming. Hope you’re a beans guy, because I wasn’t sure if that’s a universal thing or a weird British rite of passage.

My heart jumps as I type back.

Me: Beans are good. But if you forgot the hash browns, I’ll never forgive you.

His reply is instant.

Brent: You wound me. I’d never forget the hash browns.

And just like that, some of the weight in my chest lifts. Just a little.

I head to the kitchen to make a cuppa and Brent a coffee. His attempt at hiding his dislike for tea yesterday was pretty weak. The thought makes me smile that he drank it anyway.

The group chat dings again, the screen lighting up with a string of new messages from the Love the Game group. I tap it open, half distracted, until I see who it’s from.

Cosmo:

Camden! You’ve been lurking—status says you’re online. Don’t think we don’t see you.

Cosmo:

Where do you live again?