Page 76 of Worth the Scandal
Asher hits the grass. Motionless.
And I’m not breathing.
I can’t move.
My hands are shaking, and all I can think is—please, get up.
The video ref has called it a try.
He has got there.
Try.
We win.
The crowd erupts—stands shaking, thunder in my ears—but I’m not celebrating. Not yet.
Because Asher’s not moving.
He’s lying in the in-goal, face turned sideways in the grass. His chest rises, thank God, but he’s still.
Too still.
The orange-shirted medic sprints past the try line. Another follows. The trainers barking orders, but I can’t hear anything but the blood pounding in my ears.
My feet move before I realise it—shoving through bodies, ignoring security, the sideline, the rules.
I just run.
By the time I reach the sideline, the medic is lifting Asher gently, checking his pupils, tapping his shoulder.
He blinks. Winces.
The crowd quiets. Someone whispers, “Concussion.”
Then—Asher turns his head. Finds me again.
His smile is crooked, slow… but it’s there.
My knees nearly give way.
The medic holds two fingers up in front of him.
“How many, mate?”
Asher grins faintly.
“Two. And we just fucking won.”
The crowd roars.
And that’s when I let myself cry—not from fear, but from relief and joy, pure overwhelming joy.
Because that man—myman—just carried a whole team on his back and crossed the line bruised, breathless, and bloody brilliant.
They help him up, arm slung over a trainer’s shoulder, and he’s still laughing when he stumbles past me.
“I reckon you’ve bagged yourself the best fullback in the league Walker” he mutters.
