Chapter 3 #2
The tea helped most mornings—ritual over remedy—but today, it didn’t cut it.
I needed something stronger. My head throbbed with the kind of ache that came from clenching your jaw for too many days in a row.
I earned my opportunity here from grit and hard work, and I was willing to work through the uncertainty, but it was exhausting.
As I neared the common area, the sound of voices drifted around the corner.
Male. Familiar. My name in the middle of it.
“She’s got the credentials, sure,” William said, his tone flat, dismissive, the clink of his cup lid snapping into place.
“But this isn’t a psych seminar. These guys don’t need damn breathing exercises or feeling journals.
They need backbone and to grow the fuck up.
I can’t stand this new age shit about emotions. God, what is this place turning into?”
My lungs stilled, and something low in my gut twisted.
“I still don’t get the hire,” Mickerson added. His voice carried all that usual, practiced condescension—like everything he said came with a smug grin you couldn’t wipe off. “We’ve got Ivy. We’ve got Benson. What does Sloane bring that couldn’t be outsourced to a wellness app?”
My stomach flipped, a tight rush of heat rising up the back of my neck.
The same kind of heat that used to burn under my collar during med school rotations, when I’d walk into a room full of men who wouldn’t look me in the eye—but never missed a chance to comment on my clothes or the way I “took things too seriously.” The kind of heat that left you sweating under your skin while you smiled through it.
Then William laughed, a deeply rude and unpleasant sound.
“Ownership wanted a feel-good headline. First full-time mental health lead in franchise history. Looks great on paper, makes for a great opening line in the media kit. But let’s be honest—she’s ridiculous.
What kind of results can she actually deliver?
She’ll be gone before Thanksgiving. She has to be. ”
The air turned sharp, like my body was trying to armor itself without my permission.
I stood frozen, one hand still gripping my tablet, fingers going numb.
My weight shifted automatically—one foot angled toward the exit, the other refusing to move.
I should’ve walked away. I should’ve let their comments roll off my back like I always did.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. I needed to know how deep the knife went. How far they were willing to twist it.
My vision blurred, not from tears but from pressure. Like every muscle in my face was trying to hold steady while the blood in my ears pounded louder than their voices.
My throat felt raw. Like I’d swallowed something too sharp and it got stuck mid-chest. This wasn’t a new or unfamiliar feeling. I’d heard things like this before, but what they said mirrored my own family’s harsh words.
What difference can you make? You failed your brother. You couldn’t help him, so why would you think you could help anyone?
What stung the most wasn’t the surprise.
I knew how men like William and Mickerson thought.
I’d spent years working beside them, earning twice the credibility for half the respect.
But hearing it here, after Jordan—after one of the clearest moments I’d had in weeks, where my work mattered—that was what gutted me.
I blinked hard, jaw locked so tight it ached, and slowly turned back down the hall.
And that was when I saw Oliver.
He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his expression hard. His jaw tensed, and his eyes flashed with anger.
My stomach twisted tighter. I hated that he’d heard.
Hated the heat that surged up my spine, flushing my cheeks—not from shame but from exposure.
He wasn’t supposed to see that. No one was.
How would that help my credibility here?
Oliver was already suspicious of me, so how would this help?
Tears prickled at the back of my eyes, but I swallowed them down.
I learned once that clenching your butt helped fend off the feeling to cry—that you could physically stop tears I tried it this moment. I had to stop the tears. Oliver James would not see me cry.
I straightened my spine, swallowed down the burn in my throat, and forced the air in my lungs to stay even.
“Do you need something?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. Clean. Detached.
His gaze didn’t flinch. “No.”
I nodded once, about to step past him, but then he pushed off the wall and reached out, almost like he was going to touch me. I sucked in a breath, but he stilled and dropped his hand as he motioned for me to walk ahead.
I strode forward, wanting to leave the conversation I overheard in the past, hoping he wouldn’t mention it. Maybe he hadn’t heard, yet the anger in his eyes told me he knew.
We walked in silence down the corridor, footsteps echoing through the hollow space between us. It was a five-minute walk to my office, where I hoped to escape into work. I was good at that, getting lost in files and data, brainstorming ways to break through to stubborn athletes.
“Hey,” he said, an underlying edge of kindness to his tone. “You shouldn’t have to hear that shit.”
“I’ve heard worse.” I gave him a tight smile, adjusting my tablet against my chest. “It’s no big deal.”
He sighed, clearly irritated.
I turned a sharp right, my skin burning with the need to work through these impostor syndrome feelings.
“What does that mean?”
“This isn’t something you need to worry about, Oliver. I assure you I can handle it.”
He continued following me to the point we got to my office, and I leaned against the door, facing him completely.
His face was twisted with annoyance. His dark brows were furrowed, and his hair was in the same messy, stylish swoop, the ends falling past his ears.
He must’ve gotten it cut since the last time I saw him.
“Unless there’s something you’d like to talk about regarding you, I have work to get to.”
His gaze burned into me, dancing along my face and moving from my eyes to my mouth and back up. It was by far the most intense eye contact I had in a while. It was like he was trying, and succeeding, to see through me, reading my brain and analyzing it.
He ran one hand over his jaw, his nostrils flaring as he shook his head. “I know you’re busy, but I need to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sure you are fine, Doc.” His eyes flashed. “But what we both overheard was bullshit, and I want to make sure you realize that.”
“Oh, coming from you? You told me to check the box that said you’re fine so you could play. That aligns exactly with that they said.” My temper flared, my insecurities getting the best of me. I wasn’t this person. I was calm, controlled, and polished.
Oliver sucked in a breath, my attack hitting where I wanted it to. Regret washed over me, causing my gut to twist, yet I stood taller. With one hand on my hip, I arched an eyebrow and waited. Wait time.
His shoulders dropped as he lifted his hands. “That is not the same thing.”
“Sure is, but I really need to get back to work.”
“Me being closed off because I’m dealing with my own shit is not the same thing as those two assholes questioning your value here. Do not equate the two.” His jaw twitched, and his eyes burned through me again. “I would never disrespect you in that way, and I’m pissed you stood there and took it.”
Whoa.
I swallowed, taken aback by the anger in his words as well as the disappointment in his eyes.
Anger surged in my chest, all rational thought escaping me.
“What would you suggest I do then, James? Barge in there and belittle those men? Cause a scene, which would only hinder my progress and reputation? Call them out and demand an apology? I’ve been doing this for a while, and I know how it works.
I keep quiet. I stay in my lane and let the work speak for itself.
I’ve heard worse and have been treated horribly. I can handle this, and I will, my way.”
“You shouldn’t have to deal with it,” he said, his voice softer now. The anger left his expression, and something like sympathy replaced it. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway, looking a little too comfortable in my office.
“Oliver, thank you for caring, but please, I have to work.” I motioned to my desk, the stack of papers, and my laptop. It was clear I lied, since my voice shook and very few people were in the stadium this early. I needed a moment alone, away from this conversation.
He pushed off the door, staring at me another few seconds before he opened his mouth.
He then closed it, indecision crossing his face as he sighed.
“One thing you can file away about me, Doc, is that I refuse to let people belittle or insult others. If I hear them talk shit again in my presence, I will say something.”
Before I could respond, he strode off, leaving me even more confused.