Page 82 of Full Tilt
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.
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, halfyou should see the other guy.
