Chapter 3
SLOANE
The hallway smelled like industrial cleaner and gym mats—new rubber laid over old sweat.
The kind of scent that never fully disappeared, no matter how much money the franchise poured into rebranding the place.
It was early, the lights still buzzing above me like the building wasn’t quite awake.
These were the moments I liked best. The ones before everything got loud.
I could drink my coffee, wake up, and read a bit about each player, filing away what mattered and what didn’t.
Plus, this place was better than my condo. My silent, too clean, too perfect condo.
I headed toward the performance office with my tablet in hand, already flagging players to follow up with, when I heard footsteps.
“Doc!”
The voice cracked through the quiet, bright and familiar. I glanced up as Jordan Mann jogged around the corner in socks, a hoodie slung over one shoulder, and his bag dragging behind him. He looked like a disgruntled high schooler rather than a semi-famous NFL player. My lips twitched at the image.
“Are you busy?” he asked, a little out of breath. His shoes hung in one hand, sweat on his forehead. His black shirt and joggers showcased his strength and size at the same time.
Glancing at his shoes, he grinned. “I, uh, saw you from across the stadium and might’ve made a poor choice of running over here before putting shoes on.
I see now that was a weird decision. We can put that in my file.
Doesn’t think things through, goes off instinct.
But you know, that’s what makes me good on the field, you know?
I go off my gut.” He then patted his stomach.
“I’ll file it away with my other Jordan notes—talks fast, has an audacious personality, wears mismatched socks.”
“Audacious, big word. I like it.” He grinned while wiggling his toes.
“I’m superstitious when I fly. Uncle Gio never matched his, told me it was how he lived so long.
” Jordan frowned, swallowing hard when he met my gaze.
“He raised me, and I’m about to fly to his funeral.
I’m freaking out a bit, Doc. Can I steal five minutes, please? ”
“I heard about him passing, and I’m sorry.” I reached out, squeezing his forearm before gesturing toward one of the small offices. “We could go in there or head to my office. I’m not sure how much time you have before you need to leave.”
“Here is fine. I like looking at the field. Reminds me of where I’m at and how hard I worked to get here.
I never take it for granted.” He smiled, his blue eyes glazing over as he stared off into the distance.
He was the team’s best wide receiver, fast, big personality, and had the loyalty of the staff and every player.
He spent his time off the field giving back to the community and hadn’t had a single negative press release about him. He was the glue to the team.
“You mentioned freaking out. What are you freaking out about?”
He exhaled hard, rubbing his palms on his thighs like the motion would keep him grounded.
His shoulders twitched, one then the other, his whole body caught somewhere between sitting and sprinting.
“I keep thinking I should be falling apart. Like, full-on breakdown mode. This man raised me, and now he’s just.. . gone.”
His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “It’s like it hasn’t hit.
Like my head knows but my body hasn’t caught up.
And all I can think about is the walk-through coming up.
What if it hits then? What if I’m out there, in the middle of warm-ups, and I just—” He broke off, eyes wide, breath shallow. “What if I fall apart then?”
He looked at me, like I had the answer. Like I could promise it wouldn’t happen.
“And then I feel selfish,” he added, barely above a whisper. “Like I should be a hot mess right now and I’m not. Like I’m doing it wrong.”
I shifted slightly, leaning forward so we were eye-level. My voice dropped lower, steadier. “Jordan, that’s not selfish. That’s survival. You’ve spent years learning how to override pain so it doesn’t slow you down. That wiring doesn’t disappear because you're grieving.”
He snorted softly, but it didn’t hold. “Gio would probably tell me to stop crying for him and to go play with my heart tomorrow.”
“But you're not crying for him,” I said. “You're grieving what it means to go forward without him. That’s not about weakness. That’s about loss.”
He swallowed hard, but his hands didn’t move. They were locked on his thighs now, his knuckles white.
“What are you afraid will happen if you fall apart?” I asked gently.
Jordan swallowed, the sound so loud it clicked in the space between us. Then he took a deep breath. “That I won’t pull myself back together and I’ll lose my spot on the team, something we both worked for together.”
“Has that happened before? You not being able to pull yourself back together?”
He paused. “No, but it feels like it could. If anything could break me, it’s losing Gio.”
I nodded. “And what happens if you don’t fall apart? What part of you gets buried so you can hold it together for everyone else?”
He went still. I let the silence stretch, refusing to fill it with more questions or comments. I loved that silent wait-time, where people’s real thoughts came to the surface.
“Maybe I’m scared that if I let myself feel it,” he said finally, “I’ll play differently. Like it’ll get in my head, and everything will be off. And then what? Then I’ve failed Gio. Then I’ve failed myself.”
“There it is,” I said quietly. “That’s the story you’re telling yourself—that grief equals weakness. That feeling something means you’ll lose your edge on the field.”
He didn’t argue, but his shoulders slumped.
“Here’s what I want you to consider,” I said. “What if playing tomorrow with the grief—carrying it, not hiding it—is the most honest way to honor him?”
His breath stuttered.
“What if playing with your heart cracked open is the bravest thing you’ll do all week?”
Jordan leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw clenched. “You ever lose someone who felt like the only steady thing you had?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
For a second, I saw my brother’s face—grinning, wind in his hair, a football tucked under his arm as he yelled, “Keep up, Sloane!” He always let me win when we raced, even when I didn’t deserve it.
Back then, he was the calm in our family’s storm.
The steady one. The protector. Always smiling. Always cheering me on.
His eyes opened, and he looked at me for the first time like I was more than a staff badge.
I held the gaze. “My brother. He walked away from the game because of a health condition. It tore him up. He unraveled, and people called it weakness instead of what it was—grief that had nowhere to go. It ate him from the inside out. When you’re taught the only value you have is tied to performance, walking away doesn’t feel like healing—it feels like vanishing.
It’s why I’m in this role. It’s what I want to help people with. ”
Jordan nodded, understanding swirling in his gaze. It almost seemed like a little respect shining in there too.
“You’re allowed to want to show up tomorrow and be hurting,” I said. “You’re allowed to be sharp and heartbroken in the same breath.”
“And that’ll help me… not vanish? That’s… why you do this?”
I tilted my head. “Sure, that’s a part of it. The other part is because I don’t think grit and grief should be enemies. This job isn’t about therapy in a traditional sense. It’s about giving athletes a language for pain that doesn’t start with ‘push through it.’”
Jordan stared at the turf lining along the wall. “So… this counts as resilience?”
“It’s the foundation of it.”
He breathed out, slow and careful. “You know the guys call your office the panic room, right?”
“Of course they do,” I said, dry. “Because being honest is scarier than getting hit in the ribs at full speed.”
That earned a genuine laugh, a little crooked and still worn-out. “Yeah, well… this didn’t suck.”
“High praise,” I said, standing with him.
He followed, shaking out his arms like he was about to head into drills. “Thanks for not asking me to do breathwork or name my feelings in front of a candle.”
“I left my candles at home,” I said. “But next time, I might bring one labeled ‘you’re allowed to not be okay.’”
Jordan chuckled. “Yeah, I’m good on that. But seriously, thank you. For letting me… be.”
“That’s the job,” I said. “Resilience starts where the cleanup doesn’t, and if you do feel like you’re gonna freak out, then freak out. Feel it. Channel it onto the field.”
He reached for his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll text you when I land, Doc. Might give you a call if I have a question.”
“Please do.” I handed him my card, and he smiled at it.
As he turned to walk away, he paused. “Hey, Mercer?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll be back again. Don’t hold my spot with anyone else, alright?”
I smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I watched him walk away, my heart soaring.
This was why I did what I did. Players like him, players who I could help before they turned into my brother.
My brother got hurt after banking his entire future on football, then became addicted to pain meds during his recovery.
He didn’t get the help he needed, the mental help, so he turned to drugs, and my parents blamed me for not helping him.
If I was a mental health doctor, how could I not help the person I grew up with?
I swallowed the guilt, the always-present grief that lingered from my torn family. I straightened my shoulders, planning to document my notes from this conversation with Jordan when I wanted to get a coffee from the break room.
I wasn’t sleeping well.