Page 36 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

The smell of grilled corn and smoked ribs hits me before I even make it out the back door.

It’s hot—hotter than anything I’ve felt in a while.

Georgia doesn’t just do heat; it does full-body sauna.

The air clings to my skin the second I step outside, a wet blanket of humidity wrapping around my limbs.

I’m in a T-shirt and shorts, but I’m already rethinking both.

My trainers stick faintly to the deck, and I don’t even want to know what the pavement feels like.

Brent’s standing just ahead of me, barefoot and smiling like he’s never been more at home in his life.

And maybe he hasn’t. Not in a long time, at least.

There’s a speaker tucked under a shaded pergola blasting a mix of funk and country and something that might be bluegrass.

The pool glints like polished glass, half full of his extended family—some swimming, some lounging, some half wrestling on inflatable floats.

A football flies overhead. A cooler cracks open with a satisfying hiss.

Someone—probably one of the twins—yells, “ Shotgun! ” loud enough to make a few birds take flight.

And me? I’m just standing here, staring like a wide-eyed British idiot, trying to make sense of it all.

“You all right?” Brent’s beside me now, nudging my side with a can of root beer. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says ‘I’m either dangerously fond of you or wondering if your family’s going to initiate me with a chili cook-off.’”

I take the can, trying not to laugh. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.” He leans in close enough to nudge his shoulder against mine. “Welcome to the Fourth of July.”

Apparently, I’m not the only one who got the memo about shorts and bare feet. Every guy here—except for maybe Brent’s dad, who’s manning the grill like it’s a competitive sport—is shirtless or close to it. Tattoos on show. Music loud. People everywhere. It’s chaos.

Beautiful, messy, genuine chaos.

“Brent!” a voice hollers from across the garden.

Before I can blink, a blur barrels out of the house and flings itself into Brent’s arms.

“Jesus,” Brent wheezes, catching the full body of Cosmo as his youngest brother clings to him like a koala. “Warn a guy, would you?”

“You brought the Brit!” Cosmo exclaims, detaching long enough to peer at me with his too-familiar grin. “Camden bloody Crawford in my backyard.”

I lift a hand awkwardly. “Hey.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Cosmo mutters, circling me like he’s inspecting a new toy. “You. Him. Together. Wild. I’m emotionally unprepared.”

Brent’s eyes roll skywards. “He’s been like this since I told him you’d be joining us.”

Cosmo throws a dramatic arm around Brent’s shoulders. “You wound me. After everything I did for you two.”

“You sent otter memes,” Brent deadpans.

“And look where we are now.”

Before Brent can retaliate, Tony appears. “You met Calvin yet?” He jerks his head towards the shaded table under a tree, where another twin—Calvin, presumably—is sitting with a guy. “That’s Ash. They’re disgustingly happy.”

“You say that like you’re not the one who got all teary having us all together again,” Brent mutters.

Tony shrugs. “I get emotional. Fight me.”

It goes on like this—greetings, introductions to those I’ve not already met, jokes flying faster than I can keep up.

Brent’s sister, Rachel, gives me a warm hug and immediately starts teasing Brent about something he did when he was eighteen involving a pinata and a sprinkler.

His mum, Lyn, insists I call her by her first name and offers me a plate before I’ve even figured out where to sit.

His dad, Jo, gives me a nod that somehow says everything and nothing all at once.

By the time I find myself seated under the awning with a plate of ribs, coleslaw, and something suspiciously neon that Brent assures me is “just a patriotic Jell-O salad,” I’m sweaty, slightly overwhelmed, and… oddly content.

“Your family’s amazing,” I tell him as he sits beside me, beer in hand.

“They’re loud.”

“They’re real,” I say.

He nudges my foot with his. “You’re doing great.”

“Is this a test?”

“It’s the final exam. If you survive the line dancing later, you get to stay.”

I raise a brow. “Line dancing?”

“Oh yeah. One of Rachel’s friends teaches it at a community centre. We’re all roped in. Even Dad.”

This, apparently, is hilarious to everyone but me. And then, just when I’m starting to believe I’ve passed the vibe check, Brent’s mum sits down on his other side.

“Darling,” she says, smile wide but eyes sharp. “You look happy.”

Brent hums around a sip of his drink. “I am.”

“It’s good to have you home.”

He nods.

“You ever think about staying?” she asks, casual like a bomb dropping in slow motion.

My chest tightens. Brent goes still beside me.

“We miss you,” she says softly. “I know England’s… whatever it is, but there’s always a place here. You know that, right?”

Brent clears his throat, gaze locked on the rim of his can. “I know, Mom.”

She pats his leg and gets up just as quickly as she arrived, off to chase one of her nephews—or maybe to stir another tray of something heart-clogging and delicious.

I don’t say anything. Not for a long beat.

Brent eventually meets my eye. “That wasn’t about you.”

“I know,” I say.

“But it surprised you.”

I hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

We sit in silence again, not awkward, just thoughtful.

And then Tony yells something about beer pong and someone plays the opening notes of “Cotton Eye Joe,” and Brent grins, nudging me up out of my seat. “Come on, Captain. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

And despite everything—the jet lag, the humidity, the low hum of nerves in my gut—I follow him. Because in this chaos, in this ridiculous, loud, loving mess of a family… I feel more welcome than I ever have anywhere else, other than back home with my family.

We lose beer pong. Badly.

In my defence, I’ve never played before—and also, Tony is terrifyingly good at it.

Like, suspiciously so. Like, were-you-on-a-frat-league-team good.

He claims it’s all in the wrist, and Brent mutters something about him being “obnoxiously double-jointed,” which—frankly—feels like a weird flex to say in front of your boyfriend, but here we are.

“You throw like a dad at an elementary school sports day,” Tony announces, pulling a triumphant pose with one foot on a cooler and one hand cradling the winning cup like it’s an Oscar.

“I’m sorry,” I shoot back. “Do you usually insult strangers at national holidays?”

Brent grins behind the rim of his drink. “He does, actually.”

Tony winks. “And if you can’t handle that, my brother is way out of your league.”

“Oh, I know.” I say it without thinking, but the look Brent gives me—soft and surprised, pink rising in his cheeks—makes my chest twist in that now-familiar, ridiculous way.

We drift apart for a bit after that, Brent disappearing with Cosmo and Rachel towards the fire that’s being built in the pit in the side yard. I’m nursing a new drink and half a paper plate of someone’s famous bacon mac when Calvin drops into the seat next to me.

“Watch out,” he warns. “Mom’s about to bring out the mini flag cakes. Shaped like stars. Glazed like it’s a war crime.”

I grin. “Noted.”

He nods at Brent across the yard. “He looks happy.”

“He is,” I say instantly, no hesitation.

Calvin studies me. “You are too.”

I shrug. “Trying.”

“Man, you look like you’re five seconds from folding him into a snuggle burrito.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “A what?”

“Don’t act like it’s not true,” he says, jabbing my ribs. “Honestly, we’ve not seen him like this in ages. Not since before he moved to England. Don’t screw it up.”

The warning isn’t mean. It’s fond. But it still lands with a weight I feel in my chest.

“I won’t,” I say.

He nods, satisfied, and turns back to wave someone over.

A man approaches—Ash, his boyfriend, who presses a hand to Calvin’s back as he takes the seat beside him.

I get introduced properly this time, and we fall into easy, friendly conversation, mostly about Ash’s time in Texas and still failing to wrap his head around the twin chaos.

By the time Brent finds me again, the sun’s sinking fast and the sky’s bleeding into soft pinks and golds.

He looks tired, in that sun-soaked, full-of-food kind of way.

His curls are mussed from one of his cousin’s kids trying to use him as a jungle gym, and he has a smear of something suspiciously blue near his temple.

I reach up and wipe it away. “Did a cupcake explode?”

“Possibly.”

He curls a hand behind my neck and leans in, not for a kiss, just a press of his forehead to mine. It’s tender in a way that undoes me a little.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” I say. “Your family’s… a lot.” And considering just a couple of days ago he met the chaos of my own extended family, he knows I mean it in the best possible way.

He chuckles. “They are.”

“But good,” I add quickly. “Like, really good.”

“You’re good too,” he says quietly. “You’ve been great. I know this was last-minute and exhausting.”

“It’s worth it.”

That earns me a kiss, soft and easy, and I soak it up like it’ll keep me grounded.

Later, after dusk rolls in and the firepit is blazing, we lie back on a pair of deck loungers, Brent curled against my side.

My arm’s draped around his shoulders. There’s a kid in the distance waving around sparklers, and someone—Cosmo, by the sound of it—is leading an aggressively off-key rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Brent leans in and says, “You’re never gonna survive the fireworks if you think this is chaotic.”

I glance down. “Should I be worried?”

He tilts his head. “My dad went to Costco yesterday. There’s a crate of explosives in the garage.”

“That explains the small cannon I saw Tony wheeling out earlier.”

He laughs. It’s the best sound.

There’s a lull in the noise, and Brent’s hand slides beneath my T-shirt, fingers warm on my stomach.

“You’re thinking again,” he says.

“I’m always thinking.”

“You okay?”

I nod. “It’s just… surreal, I guess. This is the most welcome I’ve felt anywhere outside my own family. And even that… doesn’t always feel like this.” Hell, maybe it’s the weather and open skies—so different from Walsall.

Brent doesn’t speak. He just rubs slow circles over my skin until my breath evens out.

“You’d tell me,” he says eventually, “if it was too much?”

I glance down at him. “Are you joking? I’d burn half the world to stay in this moment a little longer.”

He kisses my shoulder, then grins up at me. “That’s weirdly romantic and slightly alarming.”

“Yeah, well. You inspire that in me.”

“You’re such a softie.”

“Says the man who snuggles like a professional weighted blanket.”

“I am the blanket,” Brent agrees solemnly.

The fireworks start with a low whistle and a boom so loud it rattles the deck chairs. Everyone screams—some delighted, some startled—and then the sky explodes in a shock of blue and gold.

“Happy Fourth,” Brent murmurs, head against my chest.

“Happy Fourth,” I say, lips pressed to his hair.

And for once, there’s no voice in my head warning me to back off. No shadow of fear about the press, or my teammates, or the weight of what it means to be someone like me in a world that often doesn’t let us be soft and seen.

There’s just this: Brent, glowing in firelight, smiling against my shoulder, home in the most unexpected way.

And fuck—I think I’m in love with him.