Chapter 7 Sloane
SLOANE
I sipped my tea as I reread the file for the fifth time.
It was short. Objective. But pointed. I noted the elevated heart rate during red zone install.
The persistent hand tremor during high-stress reps.
The uncharacteristic lack of fluidity in body mechanics.
I added that while vitals remained technically within range, I noted a clear deviation from his performance baseline, both physically and emotionally.
I recommended continued monitoring, with no current cause for removal but a strong need for weekly check-ins.
No one could accuse me of making a snap judgment, and no one could accuse me of being too cautious. The report was balanced, but I still felt like I was walking a tightrope.
By the time I got to the stadium, the building buzzed with game day energy. Kickoff wasn’t until later, but the staff moved like a machine. Equipment managers hauled bags down the tunnel. Video interns reviewed warm-up shots. Coaches gathered in tight clusters with clipboards and radios.
Ivy passed me near the trainers’ room and gave me a small nod.
She didn’t stop, but she fist-bumped me and said we’d be grabbing drinks later.
I’d love to, but she was so damn busy. One of my personal goals was to make more friends, put myself out there, but I could worry about that later.
Today was game day. The start of what-ifs: what if we made it to the Superbowl?
What if we had the season of a lifetime?
The possibilities were addicting, and today was the start.
With an extra boost of adrenaline, I ensured my office was ready for my first appointment for the day. Jordan Mann.
He knocked five minutes early and pushed the door open without waiting, a half-empty sports drink tucked under one arm and his hoodie zipped halfway over his chest. His socks didn’t match—one black, one gray—and his shorts had a wrinkle along the hem like he’d pulled them out of his bag at the last minute.
His black curls were still damp from the shower, and his gold chain flashed once when he dropped into the chair across from me.
Jordan let himself in, already smirking before the door closed behind him.
“Hey, Doc.” His eyes flashed. “You ready for your first game here?”
“I am. Thank you for asking.” I twirled my pen over my thumb, a trick I learned in high school. The motion soothed me, but I didn’t want it to be distracting. “But we’re not here to talk about me. How are you feeling?”
“Agile. Ready. Loose. All the physical parts of this body are top-notch.” He ran one hand over his shoulders, his brows furrowing.
“I just…you never realize how much someone is a part of your routine until they are gone. I’ve thought about texting him ten times today, then the grief hits me that he’s gone. ”
“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “That kind of loss doesn’t wait for convenient timing.”
He nodded, eyes flicking toward the window. “It’s not even the big moments that get me. It’s the stupid stuff. Like, he always texted me ‘Don’t cramp, idiot’ before every game. I keep checking my phone like his text is delayed.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Our brains are wired around routine. Texts, check-ins, superstitions—they build predictability. And predictability is how we feel safe under pressure.”
He didn’t speak right away, but his jaw clenched once. “I don’t want it to hit me mid-play. I don’t want to be out there and lose it because someone says something that sounds like him.”
“Then let’s plan for that,” I said. “Not avoid it—plan for it. What’s something you can do, physically or mentally, that resets you fast? A breath pattern? Phrase? Visual cue?”
He sat back, more serious now. “I have a tap I use sometimes. Right hand to my thigh, twice. Like a reset button.”
“Perfect. Build that into your warm-up. Use it after huddle breaks. No one has to know it’s for anything other than prep.”
He nodded slowly, thumb rubbing across the seam of his joggers. “I’ve used it in the past, but it wasn’t grief-related. When things got too loud, it helped me focus.”
“Then it works,” I said. “Don’t assign it a job it doesn’t need. You don’t have to rewire it for grief. It’s a pattern your body already recognizes.”
He leaned forward again, elbows resting on his knees. “And what if it doesn’t work?”
“It’s not about eliminating the reaction,” I said. “It’s about giving your system something to grab onto. A rail to hold when everything spins.”
He nodded again, slower this time. “Right. Rails. Got it.”
I picked up my tablet, logged the tap cue into his profile, then looked back up. “Let’s walk through what the first five minutes of the game might feel like. From tunnel to kickoff.”
He sat straighter. “Okay. Booth will do his whole ‘breathe or break’ speech. Then we get the call to move. It’s loud, even before we hit the tunnel.”
I let him keep talking. These were the moments that told me more than any intake form ever could.
When his session was over, he stood but didn’t leave right away.
He leaned a shoulder against the frame, flashing that crooked grin like he wasn’t about to take the field in three hours.
He seemed lighter now than he did earlier, and my chest swelled with pride knowing I helped him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at his grin.
“You sure you don’t wanna come watch warm-ups from the sidelines today?” he asked. “I’ll even do the elbow tuck how Gio would’ve wanted. Extra sharp for your notes.”
I smirked, standing to walk him out. Sometimes people lingered, and the trick was to walk with them as they left, so you controlled your office. “As tempting as that is, I can’t. I’ve got three more appointments and a very detailed checklist to complete.”
“You always have a checklist.” He stepped into the hall and turned to face me again. “You ever wing it? Say fuck it?”
“I work very hard to never wing anything.”
He gave me a look—half challenge, half approval. “That’s a shame. You seem like someone who’d look good off script.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t hate the way he said it. “That sounded too much like a line, there Jordan. Reel it in.”
“That’s because it was.” He winked, walking backward a few steps before turning toward the stairs. “I’ll see you later, Doc. Appreciate you.”
I turned back toward my door and nearly ran into Oliver.
He stood a few feet down the hall, hands in his hoodie pockets, jaw tight. His eyes flicked past me toward where Jordan had disappeared down the stairwell, then landed on me again.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Watching with his intense blue eyes that held more wisdom than most people I knew. His gold chain hung over his shirt, and his jaw was tight.
I straightened, pressing my tablet to my chest with a slight increase of my pulse. “You’re early.”
He shrugged, but the gesture wasn’t casual. “Didn’t want to be late.”
“Jordan finished.” I stepped back to hold the door open. “Come in.”
He walked past me without a word. No teasing. No smirk. No flicker of humor like he usually led with. His energy felt different. Sharper. Pulled tighter than usual.
I closed the door behind us, heart knocking a little harder than it needed to.
Something had shifted. He seemed different than last night, than when I was in his apartment. God, my stomach twisted. I shouldn’t have gone into his place. It was so unprofessional. He was a player, and I was brand-new—if anyone found out…I shuddered, ice flooding through my veins.
Get it together, Sloane.
“How are you feeling—”
“What did you put in the report?” he cut in. His voice was even, but the tone was sharp enough to slice through air.
I froze. His posture had changed. His arms were crossed tight across his chest, his jaw locked. He wasn’t sitting. He wasn’t relaxed. His pupils looked blown wide and not from the lighting. He was ready for a hit.
“I told the truth,” I said carefully. My palm was damp against my tablet, and I lowered it slowly to the table. “I reported the symptoms that showed up in walk-through. I noted the stress response, the compensation patterns, and your overall performance holding steady under elevated pressure.”
His brow lifted, like he was searching for a crack in the answer. “Did you say I was cleared?”
“No,” I said. “I said we need to continue watching, but that doesn’t mean you’re pulled.”
He huffed once through his nose and finally dropped into the chair across from mine. He didn’t lounge like usual. He sat rigid, both feet planted, elbows on thighs, fingers tapped once against his knee.
“And that was enough for Booth to keep me in?”
“I can’t and would never try to control Booth,” I replied, ensuring my voice was calm. “I gave Mac the report he asked for, which is facts.”
He didn’t speak right away. He stared at the corner of my desk. His knee bounced as his gaze cut through me. “You seemed pretty comfortable with Jordan earlier.”
That caught me off guard. “He had an appointment. Like you.”
“You laughed with him.”
I frowned, unsure how to handle this shift of conversation. “I laugh with a lot of people.”
“Not with me.”
I blinked. “Is this part of the check-in, or are we going off script?”
He didn’t smile. “I’m trying to figure out what game we’re playing here.”
“There’s no game,” I said. My pulse quickened. “But this? Right now? It’s not the same as last night. We’re not in your kitchen.”
“No shit.” He sat back, the chair creaking slightly. “You barely looked at me when I walked in.”
“Because I’m attempting to remain professional,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “I already crossed that line by going into your apartment last night.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Do you regret it?”
That hit low, right in the center of my chest. Personally? No. That was the most fun I had in a while, talking about shoes and eating breakfast at 9 p.m. Yet, my stomach had been in knots all morning because of it.