Page 40 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

I choke on the water. “You saw that?”

“Cam, the man blew you a kiss during the second half. I was ready to throw a banana at him.”

“I didn’t notice the kiss.”

Brent raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

I narrow my eyes. “Jealous?”

He shrugs, smug. “Nah. I’m the one who gets to help you out of that kit later.”

Heat spreads under my skin, and not from the sun. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your worst.”

I shoot him a sidelong glance, warmth blooming behind my ribs. “Yeah. You are.”

He walks with me back towards the changing room, fingers brushing mine as we go. “Come on, Captain. Let’s get you cleaned up. My parents are already planning dinner. Something about ribs the size of your face.”

“And fireworks?”

“Oh, babe.” His grin is lethal. “You have no idea.”

By the time we’re in the locker room, I’m buzzing.

Not just from the win—which was tight but satisfying—but from the entire atmosphere.

The Jacksonville lads were great sports, and the vibe of the crowd was rowdy in a way that reminded me of home, even if most of them were still figuring out what a scrum was.

But under the adrenaline, there’s this dull tug of sadness. I keep thinking about Lachie.

He should be here.

I can almost picture the way he’d be yelling for me across the pitch, calling me out on my positioning or barking reminders from the sideline while stuffing his face with a hot dog.

He’d have loved this—mixing with the Americans, cracking jokes about the accents, and calling the Jacksonville captain “mate” until the poor guy started saying it unironically.

I shake off the thought. It’s nearly midnight back home, so Lachie’s probably fast asleep. Or not. Who knows. I’ll shoot him a message later, send over a few pics and let him know how it all went. He’ll want the play-by-play whether he admits it or not.

Jay’s comment in the group chat lingers too.

A panel next week? It sounds like a good opportunity—and I know what it means to show up publicly.

Still, I’m cautious. I haven’t said yes yet.

I’ll reach out to my agent later, see what the logistics are.

Tomorrow I’ve got a full day off, and I already plan to spend it with Brent and his family.

The day after that, there’s training in the morning, but I’m holding the afternoon sacred—for Brent.

Because fuck if I’m not making the most of every minute with him.

As I’m about to put down my phone, I notice a new chat from Jay—not the group chat, but a private message.

Jay:

So, this isn’t public, but I’ll be there next week as a guest. Thought it might be cool if you came to the panel too—my boyfriend’s actually one of the speakers.

My eyes widen. Jay? With a boyfriend? He’s barely said a word in the group all year, and definitely never dropped that info.

Me:

That’s awesome. So, you’re seeing someone…

Jay:

Yeah. For a while now. Not public, though. Like, I trust the group, but he’s not even in it. Just a few close friends know.

Me:

Totally get it. I won’t say anything. What’s the panel?

Jay:

LGBTQ+ visibility in men’s sports. Next Thursday. We’re doing it at a youth centre near Atlanta. Wasn’t sure if you were still in the States until Cosmo’s big future-brother-in-law announcement

Me:

Lol. Yeah, I’ll be here. Heading to Tallahassee next week, but not until Friday.

Jay:

That should work out. Would seriously mean a lot if you came. You and others like you are kinda the reason I stayed in sports, you know? Back when you came out—seeing that… it mattered.

I freeze. The words hit hard. I don’t even know what to say to that. Warmth floods my chest. It’s a strange kind of gratitude, the kind that humbles you.

Me:

Shit, Jay. That’s… wow. Thank you. I’ll be there. No way I’m missing it.

Jay:

Appreciate you, man. Really. Sorry I don’t talk much in the chat—I barely remember being added. But watching you, what you’ve done… it’s meant more than I’ve ever said. Also, I showed my boyfriend your speech from last year’s equality dinner. He cried.

I snort softly, shoulders hunching with a weird mix of pride and embarrassment.

Me:

Glad it hit home. If I can make just one person feel less alone, that’s the goal, yeah?

Jay:

You did. And you still are.

The screen blurs a bit, and I blink quickly, then type one more message.

Me:

Thanks, Jay. Truly. I’ll see you there.

I set the phone down, my chest full and tight in a way that feels… good. Like something is settling into place. Like maybe all this—the pressure, the spotlight, the fear—has been worth it.

And hell, maybe that’s why I came out in the first place. For more than myself. For guys like Jay. For the next generation.

I step out of the locker room and find Brent waiting just outside the media area, laughing at something one of the press coordinators says. He spots me instantly, and that grin softens.

This is why I keep going.

This is what I’m playing for.

The media have been ushered back out to the field for the post-match photo ops with the team.

It’s a PR thing. “Grow the sport, show off the international camaraderie,” and all that.

Still, I don’t mind. Our opponents were solid players and good guys.

We’d even all shared a buffet dinner last night at a hotel conference room.

It had been loud, chaotic, and surprisingly fun.

I’d spent most of it trying to keep up with the jokes and the low-key trash talk.

And yeah… Pen.

Pen is back again. Number 14. American. Fast as hell. And apparently now the king of flirt. He’d been subtle at dinner. A few extra-long glances. A wink when I refilled my drink. A low laugh when I accidentally dropped my fork. But now? Now, it’s like he’s on a damn mission.

He leans in when we pose for the team photos, his arm brushing mine. “That was a hell of a try, Crawford.”

“Thanks,” I reply, trying not to look like I’ve swallowed my tongue.

“You always move like that? Or were you just showing off for me?”

Jesus Christ.

I glance towards the edge of the field where Brent stands, talking to one of the Seagulls staff who tagged along on the trip. He’s in sunglasses, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, posture relaxed, mouth curved into that smug, unreadable half-smile.

Fuck. He’s seen this.

Pen follows my gaze and stills. “The fuck?” he mutters. Then, louder, he hollers, “Brent Parks?”

Brent, who clearly didn’t catch the first part, lifts his chin, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to place him. Then his brows shoot up.

“No fucking way. Luke Penby?”

Pen—or apparently Luke—grins wide. “The hell are you doing here, man? The twins here?”

“Nah,” Brent says, stepping closer, shaking his head in disbelief. “Cal and Tony have a schedule clash. I can’t believe you’re here. The twins always said you were a menace. Looks like that hasn’t changed.”

Pen shrugs one shoulder. “I was thirteen and high on Gatorade most of the time.”

Then, like it’s nothing, like it’s just Tuesday, he smirks and says, “Damn, Brent. You’re hot AF now.”

And that’s about all I need to hear.

I step forwards and wrap an arm around Brent’s waist, yanking him flush to my side with a possessiveness I don’t bother hiding. “Easy there, mate.”

Brent laughs under his breath but leans into me, his body warm against mine. “Cam,” he murmurs. “You all right?”

“Nope,” I mutter. “You’ve got ex–boy-band energy staring at you like he wants dessert, and I’m not in the mood to share.”

Pen raises both hands, grin widening. “Hey, no judgement. Just didn’t realise you were already taken.”

“I’m not ‘taken,’” I say, before adding, “I’m very much involved. Big difference.”

Brent huffs out a laugh. “That’s splitting hairs.”

“Not when it comes to this,” I say quietly, meeting his eyes.

Pen whistles low. “Damn. Okay. Got it.”

We finish up the photos—mercifully without more flirt-flashbombs—and head off the pitch. Brent’s hand brushes mine once, then finds it completely. Fingers threaded. Just like that, I feel grounded again.

He squeezes. “You okay?”

I nod once. “Yeah.” But my heart’s still racing.

Not because of Pen. Not because of the game. But because of this. Of him. Of the way one look from Brent calms the rush of everything else. Like a grounding wire straight to my chest.

He’s only here a few more days before he heads back to the UK. Back to his studio. His life. And yeah, I’ll be training, travelling, doing team press, focused on tour matches… but the thought of not seeing him? Not feeling the weight of his hand in mine, the steadiness of his voice late at night?

It’s going to be shit.

Two weeks apart isn’t forever. But when you’ve finally found something—someone—that fits in all the ways you didn’t realise you were missing, even a day feels too long. I squeeze his hand tighter and tell myself I’ve got this.

Because loving someone like him? Yeah. That’s worth every mile in between.