Chapter 1 #2
Ivy shifted slightly, eyes on her own notes.
She already knew, of course. Out of all the research I’d done—and a huge reason I’d taken this job—Ivy Emerson had been the deciding factor.
One of the few women in a senior leadership role across the League, she didn’t occupy space.
She commanded it. No flair, no need for noise.
She ran a tight, regimented program built on precision and earned trust. Players listened to her.
Coaches deferred to her. She didn’t have to raise her voice to own a room.
To some, she was intimidating. To me, she was the blueprint.
The wide receiver coach—Mickerson—spoke up first. “Does he want reps held for him when he returns, or are we opening that slot?”
Mac’s tone didn’t shift. “You hold his reps. No sub unless we have a second absence.”
Another coach muttered, “That’s a fast turnaround.”
Mac didn’t even blink. “It’s his decision. I talked to him directly. He wants to be back.”
A strength coach leaned forward, arms crossed over the table. “Mentally, he’s gonna be shaken. That kid barely holds it together on a good week.”
Mac nodded. “Which is why Sloane will be made available to him immediately on return. Ivy, loop her into his post-travel recheck.”
Ivy nodded. “Already flagged it.”
One of the assistant medical staffers piped up. “Does he know it’s optional? Some of the guys are still weird about talking to—no offense—a mental coach.”
I smiled, thin and polite. “None taken. But, it’s doctor, not coach. And it’s not optional.”
Mac cut in again, voice flat. “He understands he’s required to check in with Mercer. And he agreed. That’s all that matters. Now, meeting adjourned,” he said. “Practice in ninety. Make sure the right people show up.”
I left, pulse racing with a mixture of excitement and stress. I had my marching orders, and all eyes were on me.
The second I returned to my office, I reviewed my schedule for the day.
I yawned, searching my top desk drawer for another bag of tea. It had enough caffeine to appease my headache but not enough that it would keep me up tonight.
I’d been reviewing Oliver James’s file for the better part of an hour. It wasn’t exactly long or heavy, but it was layered with a lot of unfiled things. The kind of file that didn’t scream anything out loud but whispered enough to make my gut tighten.
Vitals: stable.
EKG: unremarkable.
Recovery rate: textbook.
But tucked between hydration notes and sprint splits were little cracks. "Chest pressure—minor." "Dizzy—recovered quickly." A flagged line from last spring: "Vision blurred mid-drill.”
Individually, they were nothing. Easy to brush off. But together? They read like someone running interference on their own body. Like he knew what would get him pulled and was careful to stay above that line. It was a balance; one I’d seen before and knew well.
Athletes who’d been managing symptoms for so long they didn’t want to recognize the difference between endurance and avoidance. Between being resilient and being reckless.
The data didn’t match the behavior, and the behavior didn’t match the man I’d seen on the field earlier today.
He was downplaying something. I didn’t know what yet, but I knew how it would go. He’d walk in, cool and steady, and act like this was a box to check. He’d deflect. Joke, maybe. Sit like nothing in the world rattled him.
The file didn’t lie, but he probably would.
I heard the knock exactly one minute past the half hour. Right on time but not early. Of course.
I looked up as the door opened, and there he was.
Oliver James. Six feet of quiet intensity, damp practice shirt still clinging to his frame, towel slung over his shoulder.
His shoulders were broader in person, and he took up my entire doorframe.
But his presence wasn’t looming or daunting.
It was a calm and subtle. I could see why fans enjoyed him with his messy, styled hair.
He had the looks of a party-boy twenty-year-old, but his deep brown eyes were deep, intense, sad almost.
“Mercer?” he asked, like he already knew the answer but was giving me a second to prove him wrong.
“That’s me,” I replied, gesturing to the seat across from mine. “Technically Dr. Mercer, but sure.”
He didn’t smirk, but something flickered in his eyes as he sank into the chair. Loose posture. Legs spread wide enough to look relaxed, arms resting on the side, but his shoulders were high and tight. He wasn’t at ease. He was playing at ease.
“I’m Oliver. You probably knew that already judging by the file on your desk.” His tone was low and even. Measured. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t slouch. He sat there, attempting to relax as he held eye contact. A quiet intensity about him made me shift in my chair.
“Sure, I’ve read your file,” I said, careful not to let my voice change. “But we both know that doesn’t tell the entire story.”
I let a few seconds pass. Silence unnerved some people. Others used it as a shield. I wanted to see which one he was. Instead, he shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips. “That, we can both agree on, Doc.”
“Let’s start simple,” I said. “How are you sleeping?”
He tilted his head, his brows coming together as his jaw flexed. “Fine.”
“Define fine.”
“I close my eyes. I wake up. I don’t need to nap during meetings. No one’s yelled at me for snoring through film.”
Charming. Light deflection. Not avoidance. Yet.
“Alright, that’s good. How’s your recovery been since Saturday?”
He shrugged. “Same as always. Hydrating. Cold plunge. Lifting lighter.”
I watched him for a second, noting the steady pulse at the base of his neck. “Your heart rate was elevated longer than normal during Sunday’s drills. Does that happen often?”
He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. “It was hot. Turf reflects more heat in the afternoons.”
I noted that, then leaned forward slightly. Enough to shift the energy. “Your symptoms aren’t aligning with your vitals.”
His gaze finally locked on mine, a hint of panic behind his light blue eyes. They were almost the color of the sky. “I know how to push without going over the line. Trust me.”
There it was. The wall. Not angry. Not defensive. Firm. He knew the line.
“How long have you been doing that?” I asked.
He blinked. “Pushing?”
“Managing your body,” I said. “Toeing the line between functional and falling apart. Performing like everything’s fine while tracking your symptoms.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked past me, like he was trying to calculate whether I was worth the truth or another clipboard trying to flag him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Less performance. More weight. “Since college.”
My chest tightened—not from surprise but from recognition. That was the first real thing he’d said.
“What’s your threshold for asking for help?” I asked, twirling the pen in my hand. His gaze followed the movement, slowly moving up my arm and back to my face. Something warm reflected in his gaze, yet I wouldn’t even let myself finish that thought.
When he met my eyes, his gaze hardened, and his jaw flexed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“No,” I said. “You were sent here. That’s different.”
He leaned back in his chair, slow and controlled, like he was retreating into a stance he often did. His eyes lifted to the ceiling, then dropped back to me with something sharper behind them.
Tension flexed along his jaw. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm that didn’t match the casual pose he’d adopted earlier.
This wasn’t a guy who didn’t care. This was a guy who’d learned not to show it.
“I’m not here to pull you from the game, Oliver,” I said, softer now. “I’m here to make sure the game doesn’t take more from you than it already has.”
He scoffed, stood up as he cleared his throat. “I’m good, Doc. I’ve worked my ass off to be here, to start. I’ve got a kick-ass deal and have too many people counting on me. My sister, the guys… I get overheated sometimes, but who doesn’t?”
Interesting. He placed his hands on his hips, his tone never raising as he eyed my desk. “Ask what you need to help the coaches feel better, but I’d rather be out there then in here talking. I’m not broken. I don’t need fixing, and I don’t want you in my head.”
With that, he sighed, his lips flattening into a frown as he walked toward the door. “Mark that down, alright? Oliver James, good to go.”
Then, he left.