Page 80 of Full Tilt
Ellie’s mouth lifts slightly, a bit of warmth breaking through the professional façade. “Cam refused to play on unless Coach Pritchard promised to get you in the ambulance with Lachie.”
My heart does a weird twist at that. “He what?”
“He nearly clocked one of the Wolverhampton locks when they kept chirping during the delay. Coach had to pull him aside. Told him he needed to keep his head. Cam said—and I quote—‘Not unless Brent gets in that ambulance.’”
I blink hard, throat tight.
“Coach relented. So… here you are.”
“Right,” I say quietly. “Okay.”
We round a final corner, and suddenly we’re at an exit. The corridor bursts into motion—sharp with urgency. The back doors of an ambulance hang open, and a paramedic is adjusting the stretcher’s locks.
Lachie’s already inside, unconscious or just groggy, it’s hard to tell. He looks pale, face slightly drawn. A white band is around his wrist. I step up just as Ellie gives the paramedic a nod.
Another man stands at the side of the ambulance, also in Exeter kit. Stocky, greying at the temples, concern etched deep on his face.
“This is Brent,” Ellie tells him. “Cam’s approved him to ride along.”
The man gives me a nod of recognition. “Pritchard,” he says. “Head coach. You’ve got a calm head?”
“I’ve got a steady one,” I say, stepping into the ambulance without needing to be asked twice. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” He claps the side of the van once. “Take this and text me with updates.” He passes me a card, which reveals a cell number.
I nod as the paramedics keep moving around me. One gives me a sanitising wipe and some instructions about staying out of the way. I settle on the bench beside Lachie and grip the side rail as the ambulance jolts to life.
I glance down at the man beside me—Cam’s best friend, unconscious, hurt, and probably scaring the shit out of the whole team. I don’t know him well, but I know this: If it were Cam on this stretcher, I’d want someone beside him. Someone calm. Someone who gave a shit.
So I lean forwards, rest my forearms on my knees, and say softly, “All right, Lachie. You’ve scared the hell out of everyone. Time to wake up and start with your inappropriate questions.”
His chest rises and falls steadily.
That’ll do for now.
17
Camden
The mud’sdried 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.
