You had been with AFC Richmond for a couple of years now, traveling with them everywhere as their physio and on-call nurse. You’d seen all kinds of injuries—twisted ankles, busted knees, concussions—but when the call came through during the match against Liverpool, your stomach dropped.

“It’s Roy. Get out here. Now.”

Shit.

You bolted from the physio room, heart hammering in your chest. The crowd was roaring, but all you could hear was the thudding of your own footsteps against the turf as you ran onto the pitch.

Roy was on the ground, his face twisted in pain. The man was tough as nails, so if he was staying down, it was bad. You slid onto your knees next to him, hands already working.

“Fuckin’ hell! You bloody shite! Fuuuckk!” he yelled out to the guy who tackled him.