Page 81 of Full Tilt
“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’sentrance 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 palebeneath 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.
