Chapter 8 Oliver
OLIVER
The locker room buzzed with energy. Bass rattled through the walls from the speaker someone parked in the corner.
Cleats scraped tile. Lockers slammed. Players yelled over each other—half-barking, half-laughing—covering the nerves with noise.
It smelled like old sweat and new tape, antiseptic and heat baked into the walls.
I fucking loved this feeling. The locker room was where I felt at home, with the guys and the music and the nerves. I belonged here. I worked my way here.
Nowhere else made me feel like this, even if my heart rate was out of control.
I sat in front of my locker, elbows braced on my knees, pads already on, jersey hanging untouched beside me.
My fingers hovered over the tape roll on the bench like it was supposed to fix something I couldn’t name.
I hadn’t even started yet. My breath felt off.
Not fast. Just wrong. Too shallow to calm anything. Too full to feel real.
Noah dropped down beside me, knees wide, posture easy. He didn’t say much. Never did before games.
“You good?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Fine,” I lied. I grabbed the tape, tearing it harder than I needed to. It gave my hands something to do. I didn’t want him to see they were shaking.
He didn’t press. Just nodded and leaned back like he believed me, even though he didn’t.
Ivy appeared a few seconds later, crouched low, one knee down, already pulling at the wrap I’d just finished. She said nothing at first as she worked the tape tighter, fingers precise.
“You’re bouncing,” she said under her breath. “Slow your breath. Focus.”
“I’m fine,” I said again, lower this time.
She met my eyes for one second before standing, her gaze sharp and leaving no room for bullshit.
She and I had been through a lot together, and she didn’t need to speak to tell me to get my shit together.
She squeezed my shoulder, glared one more time, then moved onto someone else.
I used the breathing exercises that slowed down the racing pulse, focusing on in and out, praying.
Booth stepped into the center of the room. Nobody told the music to cut, but it stopped. Helmets froze mid-buckle. Guys turned to face him.
“This isn’t only a game,” Booth said, his voice even and strong. “It’s a test. Not of talent—we know you’ve got that. It’s composure. It’s what you do when the weight lands. Pressure is a goddamn privilege. You’ve earned it. Play like it belongs to you.”
Nobody clapped. Then Quinn hit his hands together once, loud and sharp.
Everyone moved. I stood up. Pulled my jersey on.
The material stuck slightly to my forearms. My gloves didn’t slide right.
I flexed my fingers and breathed in slowly, focusing on curling my toes into my cleats.
This was it. The moment I’d worked my entire life for.
I clenched my jaw. Strapped on my helmet. Tugged the chin guard into place.
Booth raised his hand. The doors opened. Noise swelled through the cracks. Light spilled onto the floor ahead of us.
I stepped into the line.
I’d waited for this moment since I was ten, and my chest already felt like it was trying to talk me out of it.
The line formed in the tunnel like it always did.
Quick. Tight. Bodies fell into familiar rhythm—jersey tugs, helmet checks, mouthguard snaps.
The air changed the second the first name was called on the loudspeakers.
Thicker. Hotter. Charged. Noise rolled in from the stadium like a wave you couldn’t dodge.
Quinn stood ahead of the pack, headset tilted, voice low but firm as he called out last-second adjustments. “Check protection. Don’t assume the edge is clean. We’ll open up mid-second.” His eyes scanned the group, sharp, intense. No one doubted him when he looked like that.
Jordan bounced in place, hood still up over his pads, music leaking from his left earbud. He rolled his neck once, then again, like he couldn’t hold still if he tried. “Let’s eat,” he muttered to no one and everyone.
Noah appeared next to me, massive frame wrapped in warm-up gear that didn’t hide a single ounce of power. He handed me a bottle without speaking and clapped my shoulder twice. “Drink. Your hands are shaking.”
I took the bottle. Didn’t respond. My throat was tight already. He was right.
He dropped back a step and stretched his arms overhead, like we weren’t thirty seconds from getting launched into a stadium of thousands. “You hear them yet? They’re louder than last season. Energy’s different.”
I nodded. Didn’t say a word.
Noah let out a low whistle. “You’re quiet. That means one of two things—you’re either about to go off, or you’re trying not to pass out.”
I exhaled and offered him half a shrug, grateful for him not pushing for more. I wasn’t sure when or how Noah had become such a good friend, but I reached out and hit his fist. Trusting and leaning on others seemed like a failure to me, but he made it easy.
He nudged me back, a small smile on his face. “I’m gonna go with the first option for my own peace of mind. Go off out there, James. Make the Central State Alumni proud.”
Booth stalked the sideline edge of the tunnel, headset resting around his neck, his clipboard tucked against his ribs. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to because his presence was loud enough.
“You get one shot to make an opening statement,” he said, pacing slow. “Make it clear. Make it aggressive. Make it something they’ll remember next week.”
He stopped and turned, scanning the group. “We prepped, we prepared, and we practiced. Now get out there and make it hurt.”
Booth turned back toward the field and gave a quick, sharp nod to the staff at the tunnel’s mouth. The line shifted. We were up.
Ivy stood near the entrance, hands on her hips, radio clamped to her shoulder. Her gaze swept over me once, then again. She didn’t ask questions. She nodded, and that was encouragement enough for me. I can do this. I will do this.
I stood, waiting for my name to be called to the fans, where I’d run onto the field. My body hummed with energy, nerves and fear combining into a sick mixture that made me feel like I was gonna throw up. Fuck, what if--
“OLIVER JAMES,” the announcer boomed over the speakers, and the roar of the crowd hit like impact.
Fire ignited at the tunnel’s edges. Flames shot upward in synchronized bursts, and the entire roster surged forward in the tunnel, allowing me to break into a sprint, Noah chanted behind me, yelling something I didn’t fully hear but felt anyway.
My lungs burned already. Not from the run. From the pressure.
This was the moment. The debut. The everything and my chest didn’t feel right. I kept running. My feet hit the turf in perfect rhythm. My form was clean. My speed was solid. But something inside me stayed jagged. Pulled. Tight in the worst possible way.
Noah reached the sideline and smacked his chest twice, nodding toward the crowd with a grin.
I slowed next to him, eyes tracking the scoreboard, the field, the formation crew, anything but Sloane. Anything but the place where I’d left all my fears buried under too many layers.
“Hey,” Noah said again, quieter now. “You with me, James?”
I didn’t answer. I grabbed my helmet and pulled it down because I was about to walk into everything I’d worked for—even if I wasn’t sure I could survive it.
That was when I saw her.
Sloane stood near the twenty-yard line, behind the line of staffers and interns with clipboards.
Her hair was pulled back tighter than usual, the breeze catching a few strands near her temple.
She wore a Rampage quarter zip and black pants.
No hat. No headset. She had the laminated field pass clipped to her hip and the tablet in her hand.
She scanned the formation once, slowly, like she was logging every detail.
Then her eyes landed on me, and my breath caught in my throat for a different reason.
She was fucking beautiful, smart, and I dragged my gaze down to her shoes—the custom flower Converse she told me about, and I smiled.
Her eyes twinkled, and I about tripped over my feet when she winked at me.
It was so playful, so fun, that it reminded me of the woman in my apartment who snorted and laughed with me.
It was what I needed to pull my head out of my ass and try to enjoy this moment.
We finished the half tied. Jordan pulled in a one-handed grab on the next drive. Quinn found Ty in the flat for a third down. I took two more runs for short gains. The rhythm held. I held.
Barely.
The second the clock hit zero, I didn’t wait. I jogged for the tunnel, helmet tucked under one arm, vision vibrating at the edges. The stadium noise faded behind me, but it didn’t get quieter.
Jordan jogged beside me, grinning, drenched in sweat, shaking my shoulders with a wild expression.
The worry I had for him disappeared. He was playing his ass off and doing well—thankfully.
He channeled his grief well, and if I wasn’t focusing on hanging on myself, I’d tell him how proud I was of him.
Noah clapped my back. I nodded, still pushing forward, desperately wanting to sit for a few minutes and settle.
Head down, focused, I marched toward the locker room when someone reached out and grabbed my arm.
Sloane’s slim fingers closed on my forearm, and I stilled, taken aback from her touch but grateful for it.
I stilled, meeting her worried gaze. “Hey, I’m good,” I rasped out, my voice slightly cracking.
“Oliver,” she replied, her mouth tightening as her eyes filled with concern. She opened her pretty mouth to say more, but I shook her off. I couldn’t do this now.
“Doc, I’m good,” I said louder and shrugged away from her touch. If I stayed near her, I’d confess everything—the fear, the terror, the fact my vision danced with white spots even as I stood there. “Mark that in your tablet, got it?”
I used halftime to settle. I’d had a million tricks to fool myself into thinking I was fine. I’d put on music, and I’d breathe a certain way. I needed ice and heat and a cold drink. I went through all the motions, and by the time Booth barked at us to win every inch, the second half started.
The second half opened with noise so loud I felt it in my ribs.
We drove again on the next series. Quick passes. Short gains. I chipped block twice and took one sweep for five. Every burst of speed cost more than it should have.
Fourth quarter. Four minutes left. Red zone again. Down three. We needed the drive.
Quinn barked a code—one we hadn’t run since preseason. It was mine.
I lined up wide, reset motion, and took the screen after a fake slant. Their linebacker came at me full speed. I ducked left, bounced off the edge, and spun upfield. The corner met me at the five.
I didn’t stop. I dropped my shoulder, took the hit, and drove forward. Legs burning. Chest burning. Everything burned. I pushed over the line.
First down.
The crowd roared again. My helmet didn’t feel like it fit anymore.
Next snap, Ty ran a slant, and Quinn hit him for the touchdown. The place erupted.
I didn’t celebrate. I couldn’t.
I made it to the sideline. Ivy stood close. She had a towel in her hand and didn’t offer it. Watched me. I kept my head down, letting the roar around me cover the way I sat on the bench too slowly.
Booth’s voice cut through everything. “Finish strong!”
I nodded, eyes on the field, vision tunneling. My body screamed to rest for a second.
We closed out the game with a final defensive stop. I didn’t get another snap. I didn’t need one.
The clock ran out.
We won.