Chapter 7 Sloane #2
I folded my hands on the desk to keep them from shaking. “I regret the lack of boundaries. Yes.”
“But not the company?” he asked, voice quieter now. The heat was still in his eyes, but it was edged with something else—fear, maybe. Doubt. I wasn’t sure.
I stared at him. At the tension lining his shoulders, the way his hoodie clung to his forearms, how his fingers twitched.
“No,” I said finally. “Not the company, Oliver.”
His expression softened, his lips curving up into an almost smile. He was way too charming for his own good, and it was clear he was avoiding talking about the game and chose our recent…hangout instead. This wasn’t the time for that, so I shifted to the facts.
“Booth and Mac both agreed you’ve shown enough consistency to move forward. Ivy will monitor your vitals from the sideline. I’ll be in communication the entire time. You have coverage.”
“Doesn’t feel like coverage,” he muttered, his jaw flexing as he stared at the wall behind me instead of my face. “This shit feels like surveillance.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to feel like,” I said. “Until we know your baseline is stable again. You know this. We do this for every player who has inconsistencies or if they pass out during practice.”
“That doesn’t make it suck any less, okay?” His tone had a bite to it, one I wasn’t used to hearing. He stood, like he couldn’t stay seated another second, and paced once to the far side of the room.
“It’s clear you’re using your deflection tactics today.”
“Nice observation, Doc.” He kept his back to me as he admired a few of my degrees hanging on the wall. “Sure as shit am avoiding what I’m feeling.”
“What are you afraid of most?”
He turned slowly, his shoulders slumping as he shrugged. “That something goes wrong and no one lets me explain before they bench me and I lose my starting spot, something I’ve worked half my life for.”
“That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that,” he snapped again, closing his eyes as he pinched his nose. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to use that tone with you. I’m in my head about starting tonight, then whatever happened last night.”
“Hey, nothing happened last night. I had to borrow my neighbors’ eggs for French toast. I heard that happens all the time, right?”
He almost smiled, and I continued. “I’ll be here every step of the way, alright? I’m in your corner if that helps.”
His jaw flexed again. “It does.”
I nodded. “Then trust me to do my job.”
He looked at me again, eyes softer now, like the fight in him was still burning but not aimed at me anymore.
“I’m more scared than I thought,” he said quietly. “But I’m still walking into that tunnel.”
“I know.”
The air in the office shifted, quiet but heavy.
It wasn’t the words. It was the way he said them—bare, almost defensive, like if he spoke any louder, it would break something open.
We weren’t sitting anymore. We weren’t in a formal session.
This wasn’t patient and clinician. It was two people trying to understand the rules of something that hadn’t existed before.
He looked at the door but didn’t move yet. His hand opened and closed once, flexing at his side.
I stayed by the desk, unsure if stepping toward him would cross another invisible line. I’d already crossed so many. Everything between us had changed—too much, too fast—and now we were pretending it hadn’t. Except we weren’t. Not really.
“I’m not afraid to play,” he said, voice still quiet. “But I’m afraid of what happens if I can’t finish. If something happens out there and I feel it coming and I don’t say anything fast enough.”
I swallowed. “You can say something. Even if it’s small. I’ll see it. Ivy will see it. You’re not alone.”
His throat worked like he wanted to believe me but didn’t know how. “I want to trust that.”
“You can,” I said, steady now. “That’s why I’m here. Even if everything else is gray—I won’t be.”
He looked at me finally. His jaw stayed tight, but his eyes had softened. Something raw lingered in them now. Something stripped of the usual control he wore like a second skin. That was what broke me the most. He wasn’t pushing me away. Not this time.
We stood in the same room, on opposite sides of a line that blurred the second he made me laugh in his kitchen. The second I crossed the hallway and knocked on his door. The second he said yes to French toast and sat too close and made me want to be someone other than Dr. Mercer for five minutes.
He reached for the handle, fingers brushing the wood like it might change its mind and stay shut.
“Thanks for not making me feel weak for saying that.”
I blinked fast, heart pounding louder than necessary. “Thanks for not lying.”
He paused with the door halfway open. One foot already in the hallway. The muscles in his back shifted, and I knew he was still thinking. Still sorting through everything we hadn’t said out loud.
“Doc?” he asked, without turning.
“Yeah?”
He stood there for a breath longer than he needed to.
“I meant what I said yesterday. You’re the only person I trust with this.”
My lungs locked for a second. I didn’t answer right away, afraid my voice would crack.
“Then I won’t let you down,” I said, soft but certain.
He nodded once, then he left. I stared at the closed door for a full thirty seconds before sitting down, trying to remember how to breathe.
This was what I wanted—a way to break through to him.
And now that he opened up a bit? Was it because I was Dr. Mercer or because we formed a friendship?
I wasn’t sure which one I cared more about, and that scared me because I never crossed the professional line. Ever.