Page 33 of Full Tilt (Love The Game #4)

I force a smile back, stepping closer, ignoring the chair and perching carefully on the edge of his bed.

I don’t say anything at first, just take him in.

Every little shift of his fingers looks like it takes effort.

He raises his brows a fraction and gestures weakly towards my face, then grimaces in a way that’s half concern, half you should see the other guy .

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “Looks worse than it is.”

He mimics a small jab with his hand and raises a brow again.

I huff a breath through my nose, trying not to laugh. “No, I didn’t get in a fight, arsehole. Just a well-placed boot in the scrum. You’re not the only one who got wrecked today.”

He taps his chest gently, then gives a thumbs-down.

I understand. He wants to know about the game.

“We lost,” I say quietly.

His face falls.

I nod. “Yeah. Not our best. But it was already slipping before… before that tackle.”

He looks away for a second, his jaw twitching.

“They’re saying it’s your larynx,” I tell him softly, watching his reaction. “Got crushed a bit in the collision. They don’t think it’ll be permanent, but it’s compressing your airway. Makes it hard to speak. They’ll get you fixed right up in surgery.”

He raises his hand, fingers pinching together in a small, tight motion.

Yeah. Small odds. He knows.

“But you’re here,” I say. “You’re breathing. You’ll get through this.”

Lachie’s throat works as he swallows. It looks like it hurts. His eyes flick up to mine and narrow slightly—his version of don’t bullshit me .

I let out a breath and scrub my face. “All right. I’m fucking terrified, okay? But I’m also really fucking relieved. And you”—I point a finger at him—“scared the shit out of all of us.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, then lifts his hand, palm up, in a silent apology.

I shake my head. “Don’t. You don’t apologise for that. That wasn’t on you. And we’re going to sort it. I’ll help however I can. I promise.”

He nods faintly, eyes softening. And I realise, looking at him—this battered, quiet, stubborn bastard of a best mate—that no matter what the future holds, we’ll figure it out together.

Even if it’s without rugby for a while.

Even if it means learning how to speak again.

Even if all we’ve got for now are glances and the occasional crooked grin.

It’s enough. He’s here. That’s what matters.

Brent drives my car home. I’m too exhausted to argue, too fried to focus on anything but the way his hand steadies the wheel and the soft thrum of the engine beneath us.

The whole drive, I texted, made calls—checking in with Coach, confirming updates with the team, sending messages I don’t even remember writing.

We didn’t leave the hospital until Lachie was out of surgery and his brother arrived.

I hadn’t realised how much I’d been holding everything together until Brent was quietly there, never asking for anything, just present. Solid. Reassuring.

I don’t know what I would’ve done without him.

All I can think about is Lachie and his recovery. Everything can change in an instant.

I’ve always known this. Rugby’s part of my bones, my blood, but I’ve seen more injuries—both minor and brutal—than I can count. This one hit different. It hit home. Lachie’s not just a teammate—he’s my best mate, my anchor on the pitch. Seeing him unconscious on the grass… it’ll haunt me.

I’m relieved there’s just one game left. We’ve still got to show up and give it everything, but I can’t wait for the season to be over. I’m done. Tapped out. I’ll do what needs to be done for the squad, for the fans, but after that?

I need rest.

His brother said he’s taking him back to Manchester for recovery.

It’ll piss Lachie off—he hates being told what to do—but it’s the right call.

Their family’s there. They lost their mum a few years back, and they’ve never had anything to do with their dad since they were kids.

It’s not just about having someone to help him—it’s about being somewhere that still feels like home.

I sigh as we pull into the car park outside my flat. Brent turns off the ignition, glancing over. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

I nod, dragging a hand down my face. “Getting there.”

Inside, I dump my bag near the door and kick off my trainers. Brent follows with less fanfare, slipping his keys and phone onto the counter. He says nothing when I sag down onto the couch and press my hands into my eyes.

A minute passes.

Then another.

He sits next to me, thigh against mine, and just lets me breathe.

Eventually, I check my phone again. A message from my brother lights up the screen.

Joel: Heard about the game. And Lachie. You all right?

My fingers hover. Then I type back a quick reply.

Me: Getting there. Thanks. Listen, do you mind if I bring someone to the wedding?

No sooner do I send it than I lower the phone and glance at Brent. “Hey,” I murmur. “You free a couple of nights before you fly out? My brother’s wedding… it’s the night before you leave. Would you wanna come with me? As my… plus-one.”

His face lights up like I just told him he won the bloody lottery. “Yeah,” he says instantly. “Of course. I’ll wear something fancy. But not too fancy. Because, you know, I’m still me.”

Despite everything—the fatigue, the bruises, the emotional sledgehammer that was today—I smile.

Brent watches me quietly for a moment, then reaches over, fingers curling gently around mine. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand, grounding. “You really okay?” he asks softly, not pushing—just present.

I nod once. Then again. “Yeah,” I say, voice hoarse. “Or… I will be.”

“That’s enough,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be more than that tonight.”

I look down at our hands. Mine’s bigger, rougher. But it’s his that feels stronger somehow. Steadier. Holding me together in ways I didn’t realise I needed. “Thanks for being there. Today. With Lachie.”

He leans over and presses a kiss to my temple. “You’d have done the same.”

I snort. “I’d have decked the security guard.”

Brent chuckles against my skin. “I nearly did. He definitely thought I was trying to stage a pitch invasion.”

We fall into silence again, but it’s a comfortable one. One where I can close my eyes, just for a second, and let the day fall away.

Eventually, Brent shifts, pulling me gently until I’m tucked against his side. He rubs slow circles on my back, his lips at my temple again.

“I’ll look good in the wedding photos,” he says quietly, and I can hear the grin in his voice.

“God help me,” I murmur, but I press closer anyway, letting his warmth bleed into my skin.

Brent doesn’t hesitate when he kisses me again. “You sure you’re okay with bringing me along to something like that?”

“You’re the first person I want beside me,” I say, quiet but certain.

That gets me one of his smiles—the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes; it’s warm and real. It slides under my ribs and settles there, making my chest ache in the best way.

“I’ll charm the hell out of your family,” he whispers, lips brushing against my hair. “Cosmo will probably cry and tell me I’ve upgraded your entire existence.”

I huff out a laugh.

We fall quiet for a while after that, my eyelids drooping. This closeness, this quiet comfort is enough to settle my worried heart, my overthinking, and maybe even a little of my soul.

A small smile curves my lips as I feel myself drifting off to sleep.