Page 83 of Full Tilt
“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 ofdon’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 rememberwriting. 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.
