Page 32 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

Camden

The mud’s dried stiff on my shins by the time I strip off my kit. My ears are still ringing with the crowd, the referee’s whistle, the dull roar of everything the moment Lachie hit the ground. My right eye’s almost swollen shut, but none of it matters.

I toss my jersey into the laundry bin, tug on my Exeter track pants, and ignore the sting as the waistband grazes a new bruise above my hip. I don’t care. All I care about is Lachie.

I check my phone again, even though I’ve already read Brent’s last message twice.

Brent: He’s at the hospital. Stable. Awake. Concussed. They’re running scans. I’m with him.

Thank fuck for Brent.

I didn’t hesitate. The second I saw Lachie go down, I wanted to run with him to the hospital. But the match wasn’t over, and he’d have gutted me if I’d walked off and left the boys short. I demanded Brent go instead, because I trust him. More than I want to admit.

Whether Coach Pritchard was surprised by that demand or not, I couldn’t say.

He didn’t argue, just nodded once and made it happen.

Even before I’d asked, Brent had been leaving the stands—just from one pleading look from me—and racing to Lachie’s side.

The man has no family nearby. Just me. And today, I wasn’t enough.

I drag a hand through my damp hair, already starting to dry in stiff tufts.

Around me, the locker room’s quieter than normal.

The adrenaline’s wearing off, and everyone’s in that raw, uneasy space that follows a game like this one.

No one wants to say it, but we all saw it happen.

The hit was late, dangerous, and Lachie didn’t get up.

“I’ve had word from Brent,” I say, voice gravelly as I zip up my jacket. The room tilts slightly. I press a hand to the bench to steady myself.

A few of the boys glance over.

“They’ve taken him in for tests. He’s awake. Concussed, but no spinal trauma. They’re still doing scans, but he seems lucid.” I don’t add that Brent told me he wasn’t talking. There’s something apparently going on with his throat. It’s scary as fuck, but all I can focus on is him being awake.

A few shoulders drop. One of the rookies—Lewis, I think—lets out a shaky breath and mutters a “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Good he had someone with him,” Rafi adds, tying his boots with more force than necessary.

I nod. “Yeah. Brent went with him. I asked.”

Another silence settles. I don’t offer an explanation. I don’t owe one. Brent might not be part of the team, but today, he was exactly who Lachie needed.

“I’m heading to the hospital now,” I add, pushing off the bench. “Coach says we’ve got recovery sessions tomorrow, but they’re optional. I’ll check in once I’ve seen him.”

Jules claps me on the back as I pass. “Tell him we’re thinking of him.”

“Tell him we’ll bring beer if he’s stuck there overnight,” someone else says, earning a dry laugh from a few others.

I don’t smile. Not yet. Not until I see Lachie for myself.

I grab my keys and phone and head for the exit, every muscle in my body aching, but only one thought cutting through the rest: Get to the hospital.

The hospital’s entrance is chaos. Cameras flash the second I walk up to the front entrance from the car park.

Shouts follow—reporters calling my name, others yelling Lachie’s, asking for updates, demanding statements.

My cap’s low, my hoodie up, but it doesn’t matter.

They know who I am. They always fucking know.

I push through the glass doors, jaw clenched, heart hammering, and find Brent waiting inside. The moment I’m through, the doors close behind me with a soft whoosh, shutting out the reporters and the noise. Brent’s eyes meet mine, his expression tense, worried, and then he’s in my arms.

Or maybe I’m in his.

I clutch him tightly, burying my face against his neck, and his arms come around me like a vice. My ribs scream, as does my cheekbone. I wince, sucking in a breath.

“Shit,” Brent mutters, pulling back just enough to study me. “Your face. Your ribs too?”

“I’m fine,” I rasp. “Lachie?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Still being seen. Your coach is here. He’s with the doctors now. They’re waiting for some results, but they’ve stabilised him. He’s not alone.”

I nod, breathing just a little easier, even as my chest still feels cracked open. “Thank you,” I say, voice rough. “For being here.”

He frowns like it’s a ridiculous thing to thank him for. “Of course I’m here.”

He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together without hesitation, and leads me towards the lifts.

We pass a nurse station. A few eyes flick up.

Maybe they recognise me. Maybe they’re just clocking my bruised face.

Either way, I don’t care. I’ve got one priority, and he’s up on the fifth floor.

“How’s the team?” Brent asks gently as we step into the lift.

“We lost.”

He flinches slightly, and then his thumb strokes mine. “Sorry, baby.”

The word hits me in the sternum. I look down at him. His face is tired, soft with concern, and the affection behind that endearment threatens to gut me. I squeeze his hand but don’t say anything. I can’t.

The lift starts to rise, a soft whir filling the silence.

The moment we’re alone, with no windows and no watching eyes, I reach for him again.

I tug him in by the hoodie, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my face to his shoulder.

I just need to breathe him in. Something grounding.

Something that reminds me the world outside this moment isn’t everything.

He holds me like he gets it. Like he knows I need it without him needing to say anything. His fingers drift up my spine. One of them catches in my hair and lingers there, slow and steady.

Neither of us speak.

When the lift dings, we don’t move right away. When we do, I keep his hand in mine, unwilling to let go.

The fifth floor smells like disinfectant and nerves.

We round a corner, our footsteps echoing on the polished floor, and I clock Coach Pritchard immediately.

He’s standing just outside one of the private rooms, arms folded, face pale beneath his usual tan.

A doctor is speaking to him in low tones—serious ones.

Brent slows beside me, and I tighten my grip on his hand for just a second before letting go.

Coach spots me the moment the doctor steps away. “Crawford,” he says, voice low and worn, like it’s been run through a shredder. His gaze flicks to Brent but doesn’t linger. “You made it.”

“Yeah,” I croak. “How is he?”

The doctor, a man in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a grave expression, turns to me. “You’re one of the teammates, yes?”

“I’m his best mate,” I say. “And I’m his medical proxy if family can’t be reached.”

He nods. “We’ve contacted his brother. He’s en route. He should be here within a few hours.”

“What’s the situation?” I ask, pulse thudding in my throat.

The doctor’s mouth presses into a thin line.

“Lachlan sustained blunt force trauma to the laryngeal area. From the footage we reviewed and the description your coach provided, he was tackled during the breakdown. The Wolverhampton number 5 drove into him at an awkward angle—his forearm caught Lachlan high and hard across the throat. The impact jarred the trachea and caused acute swelling around the vocal cords.”

My blood runs cold.

“He’s breathing on his own,” the doctor continues quickly, likely seeing my reaction, “but the swelling is significant. It’s partially obstructing his airway, and any further inflammation could make it worse. We’ve got him on oxygen for now, but we’re prepping him for surgery within the hour.”

“What kind of surgery?” Brent asks beside me, voice tight.

The doctor doesn’t flinch. “A tracheal decompression and possible surgical repair of a fractured thyroid cartilage. We won’t know the full extent until we’re in there.”

“Will he…?” I stop, struggling to shape the question.

“Will he talk again?” Brent says gently, finishing it for me.

The doctor sighs, nodding slowly. “We hope so. But trauma like this can cause long-term issues. His voice might change. There may be strain, or permanent hoarseness, depending on scar tissue and nerve involvement.”

I stare at the door behind him like I might punch through it.

Coach’s hand lands on my shoulder—not heavy, but solid. “He’s in good hands, son.”

I nod mutely.

“He hasn’t said anything since it happened,” Brent murmurs. “I noticed it in the ambulance. He was trying to speak, but….”

“He likely couldn’t,” the doctor confirms. “The trauma to the cords—combined with the swelling—makes it nearly impossible to project any volume. He’s been communicating with hand squeezes and nods.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “He was just—I passed him the damn ball.”

“It’s not your fault,” Coach says. His voice is clipped and angry. “It was a hard hit. The ref didn’t call it malicious, but I’ve already filed a report for the disciplinary panel.”

I exhale slowly, rage simmering just beneath my skin. But right now, anger won’t help Lachie. Being here will. “Can I see him?” I ask.

The doctor nods. “Just for a minute. We’re getting him prepped now.” He gestures towards the door and then heads down the corridor, iPad in hand.

Brent steps aside, letting me pass, and I swear I feel his hand brush mine again. A silent reassurance. I glance back once—he’s watching me. Tense. Steady. Present.

Then I push into the room.

The soft beep of machines greets me as I step through the hospital room door. The blinds are drawn, casting a dim bluish hue across the room, but I can still see Lachie clearly—propped up slightly in bed, pale, bruised, his left eye swollen and the side of his neck heavily bandaged.

But he’s awake.

And he grins the moment he sees me.

That familiar crooked smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it still sends a wave of relief through my chest.