Chapter 9 Sloane
SLOANE
The final whistle didn’t bring relief. It brought a different kind of weight.
We did it. We won game one without any major injuries.
Gratitude spread through my shoulders, my pulse finally slowing.
The adrenaline crash would come hard and fast, but I welcomed it.
All the work and failed relationships came to this moment.
Me having a spot on the staff for a professional football team.
The scoreboard lit up. The crowd roared.
My fingers didn’t stop moving. I stayed locked on my tablet, notes flying in as bodies cleared the field.
Ivy was already on the move, headset off, radio clipped to her vest. Med interns fanned out like a pit crew, checking equipment, retrieving wraps. I kept my eyes on Oliver.
He didn’t fall. He didn’t flinch, but he also didn’t celebrate. He moved like someone playing defense against his own body. His sharp words to me earlier stung, but he was being defensive. I knew he wanted me to back off, but it was my job to monitor his mental health.
I flagged him.
Oliver James: Primary flag. Delayed post-impact rise. Labored recovery pace. Minimal reaction post-touchdown. Left hand tremor while hydrating. Field affect blunted. Request HR monitoring (Ivy) + game film check.
I kept typing as the players disappeared into the tunnel. Cleats on concrete. Shoulder slaps. Someone shouted about pasta. Jordan jogged past, jawline slick with sweat and joy, eyes red but heart steady. He pointed at the sky, then at me.
“I squared up, Doc,” he said. “Appreciate you.”
My lips twitched. That dude hadn’t broken, and I was damn proud of him. My phone buzzed, and thinking it would be Ivy or Mac, I glanced at my watch, and my stomach dropped.
My mom texted me—she never, ever reached out to me unless it was something passive aggressive.
I should’ve ignored it. That would’ve been the smart thing to do.
Hell, I knew better. I coached people on how to avoid triggers during high-stress times, yet I had to read it. What if something happened to Caleb?
Mom: your brother saw you on TV and spiraled. Didn’t realize you’d be a sideline cheerleader with those degrees.
My eye twitched as the familiar heat of anger rose in my chest, clogging what little joy I’d let myself feel from the win. Of course she’d send that text now—after the final whistle. She wouldn’t want me to enjoy the moment. No, she’d want me to hurt.
I thought about calling my brother Caleb—to hear his voice, to know he was still breathing, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. He’d twist the blame. That was our rhythm now: silence and resentment layered over what used to be love.
My throat tightened as I locked the screen and shoved the phone deep into my pocket. A flicker of worry wedged its way down my spine.
“Hey,” a voice said behind me, deep and genuinely concerned. “You alright? You kinda stumbled there.”
Noah Abbott stood beside me, a full head taller, sweat-slicked and still breathing hard, but his expression was soft. He extended a hand, like he was gonna catch me.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, pushing down the burn behind my ribs. “Thanks though.”
I forced a smile and gestured toward the tunnel. “Great game tonight, Abbott.”
He grinned, still not moving. “Felt like a damn street fight out there. Love when we earn the W.”
“You handled it clean,” I said, and when he didn’t look away, I added, “You shift your stance when Quinn’s panicked, you know that?”
That caught him. His brows lifted. “What?”
“You widen your base. Drop your shoulder earlier. It’s not random. It’s deliberate. You adjust to protect him before he ever says a word. That’s not reaction. That’s anticipation. You’ve been doing it since preseason.”
His grin faltered into something closer to awe. “You… noticed that?”
“I make it my job to notice what makes the people around here valuable,” I said simply. “You anchor more than the line. I’m sure you do that for everyone in your life, move in anticipation of what they need.”
For a second, he didn’t speak. He stared at me with wide eyes. Then he chuckled, slow and warm. “Damn, Doc. You’re kinda scary.”
I snorted, shrugging at the compliment. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that, but it might be the first time it’s been said as a compliment. At least, I think it was,” I added, my face flushing with embarrassment.
“It definitely was a compliment. And hey,” he said, frowning and glancing around us, “if you ever need a bodyguard, you let me know. I’m around.”
With another smile and nod, he jogged off with the rest of the team.
For a second, a breath of time, the weight in my chest eased.
Abbott was a kind man, and his reputation was that—a large, gentle giant who kicked major ass on the field and protected those around him.
He was always chatting with Oliver, which made the knot in my gut ease a bit.
If Abbott was looking out for him, that meant he had someone on his team.
Even thinking of him brought back the nerves. He hadn’t checked in, and he should’ve. I moved toward the hallway near the lower-level medical suite, hoping to get a glance of him somewhere. But nothing. He was nowhere in sight.
Ivy waited there, arms crossed, mouth pressed tight. William stood beside her, coffee in hand like he hadn’t missed two visible signs of a player struggling. Mac leaned against the wall, phone in hand, reading something I couldn’t see.
“We’ll do full reports in the morning,” Mac said without glancing up. “But I want early indicators flagged tonight. We meet at seven sharp.”
I clicked my tablet on and stepped closer. “Jordan’s holding better than projected. I’d still recommend a grief check midweek. Quinn’s verbal output was high, almost too scripted—might be masking pre-snap tension. And Oliver—”
“I had him flagged for vitals,” Ivy said before I finished. “But he refused to check in.”
“I know,” I replied. “But there’s more. His response post-screen was too slow. His gait altered on the sideline—minor left lateral drift. His expression after the touchdown? Flat. That wasn’t adrenaline. That was system strain.”
Ivy turned to me, brow lifted, not defensive, just processing. “I didn’t catch the lateral drift.”
“I logged timestamps,” I said, tapping my screen. “I’ll get you the playback clips.”
Mac pushed off the wall and gave me his full attention. “Was there a moment you thought he should’ve been pulled?”
“No,” I said, steady. “But he’s masking. That, I’m sure of.”
William made a sound like a chuckle behind his coffee lid. “We’re really pulling players over facial expressions now?”
Mac didn’t even blink. “We’re not pulling him yet, but we are going to rewatch the tapes and make sure he’s fine. Numbers were good today but not worth the risk.”
Ivy nodded, serious now. “I’ll back her statement. He moved like something was off.”
William looked between us, smirking like he had more to say, but Mac turned to him before he could speak.
“Get me the vitals tonight,” Mac said. “And Sloane, send your mental performance flags by 10 p.m. No guessing. I want clear notes. If he’s on a watchlist, I need to know why.”
“I’ll send it before I leave,” I said.
“That’s it for now,” Mac said, turning. “See you in the morning.”
We all started to peel off. William walked toward the west corridor. Ivy lingered, her gaze shifting back toward the hallway Oliver had disappeared into.
“You were right about the affect,” she said. “The tremor too. I missed both.”
“You were managing a dozen other things,” I said.
She squeezed my arm gently. “Still. You’ve got sharp eyes.
That matters. Glad you’re here, Doc.” She winked before parting.
Her words landed heavier than they should have.
It made me sound so pathetic, but all I wanted was to belong somewhere.
To be a part of something. My family had pushed me out and blamed me for their own choices, and yeah, I had friends, but they were casual. Glad you’re here.
It almost made me smile. It did make me want to work twice as hard to have that feeling remain.
I stayed in that hallway for another full minute after they left. The noise from the locker room was muffled now—shouts, music, someone chanting something about winning dinner bets. But the air felt cold. Stale.
I pulled up my notes again. Tapped Oliver’s name. Added one more line.
Watchlist confirmed.
Then I walked toward the exit, tablet in hand, phone silent. I didn’t need another message from my mother to tell me what I already knew.
I wasn’t here for them.
I was here for the players who couldn’t say the truth out loud.
And I was going to make damn sure Oliver James made it through this season with his head—and his body—still intact.
The stadium emptied in waves. Fans first. Then media.
Then volunteers and interns in packs, clearing signage and field gear like clockwork.
I stayed in the back corridor, logging the final flags, sending Mac the watchlist right on time.
Four guys needed watching and discussion with the leadership team, but that could wait until tomorrow.
My badge itched against my collarbone. I unclipped it and shoved it in my purse as I stood and stretched. My back cracked. I wasn’t used to this much standing, this much scanning, this much adrenaline crashing down all at once.
I needed to go home and relax, sleep… then come back and join the chaos again.
People lingered all over the stadium and with my bag and phone in hand, I started the walk toward the parking garage but paused when I glanced at the field.
It was massive, and silence echoed throughout as I stared, breathing it all in.
That was when I spotted a familiar figure down in the bleachers.
Oliver.
I slowed, forgetting how tired I was and how I should head back home.