Chapter 10 Oliver
OLIVER
The light in my apartment came in too bright.
I hadn’t closed the blinds properly last night, and the rays hit the corner of my bed with a clarity that didn’t feel earned.
My shoulders ached. My legs pulsed. A dull pressure throbbed behind my eyes, like I hadn’t really slept at all.
I blinked up at the ceiling, dragging one arm over my forehead, and let the stillness sink in.
My body was stiff. Not the usual soreness but the kind that settled in deeper—the kind that felt like something was pulling tight under the skin.
My chest felt full, like I couldn’t take a breath without working for it.
I didn’t reach for my phone right away. I didn’t want to know what time it was.
Didn’t want to know what kind of messages might be waiting.
Eventually, I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the charger to see a pileup of messages.
A few from Ivy and Callum, checking on me.
Our other college friends blew up the group chat with my start—Lorelei Monroe and Mack Romano sending numerous GIFs congratulating me, and I wasn’t surprised their husbands didn’t.
Dean and Luca weren’t the chattiest, but they both liked the GIF, which was pretty much a declaration of love.
A flood of unopened notifications waited for me too—final score posts, slow-motion replays, sports accounts tagging me in the highlights.
It was a big win for the Rampage to beat LA on our first game of the season, especially when they beat us last year to end our season.
Yet all the congrats and soreness hadn’t dulled the real worry in my gut: Sloane.
I hadn’t heard her at all last night, and all I could see was Mac’s face when he walked up to us.
The way he froze in the tunnel. The shock that flickered behind his eyes before the judgment settled into his jaw.
He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t needed to.
I knew that look. Knew what it meant to be caught doing something that put someone else’s job on the line.
And Sloane? She had risked everything by sitting next to me like that, staying when the stadium emptied, letting me talk like she wasn’t the team’s mental performance lead and I wasn’t the player being monitored.
She should’ve left first. She should’ve been the one to walk away. But she hadn’t. And now I couldn’t stop thinking about the way her mouth tightened when she talked about her mom. The way she softened when I said her name.
And fuck, what if Mac said something? What if she caught shit for sitting with me too long? I hadn’t meant to make things harder for her. She was finally starting to feel like a friend. And then of course Mac saw that, and this shit happened.
I thought about texting her. Something easy, asking if she was okay or good or if she slept alright or if she was in trouble with Mac. But my thumb hovered, and I locked the screen instead. No. Texting her could make it worse. It’d be better to talk to her in person today.
And if she needed space? I’d give it to her. I’d hate myself if talking to her put her job at risk or her reputation that she fought tooth and nail to have. I heard what those asshole men said about her, and I refused to play into that narrative or make her life harder.
I had a bit of time before heading to the stadium for post-game meetings.
I scrolled through the trending clips from the game.
One was a highlight of the touchdown. I didn’t even recognize myself.
I looked sharper on screen than I’d felt in real time.
The second clip, though, was worse—a slow-motion replay of me stumbling after the last red zone block.
The camera zoomed in enough to catch me swaying.
Enough to confirm what Sloane already knew.
To the average fan, they’d never know, but fuck, I hated seeing myself weak.
You’re breakable, Oliver. You’ll never make it, so stop trying.
My sister’s words echoed in my mind, but I swallowed them away. I refused to let Rachel’s words hurt me. She was wrong. And yeah, she was one of my best friends and had hurt me, but I was fine. I survived the game and played my ass off, so fuck that noise.
By the time I reached the facility, the mood was nothing like game day. The parking lot was half-empty. No music. No joking in the halls. Only the low hum of vents, distant voices, and the quiet shuffle of recovery day.
The lights inside the training wing buzzed faintly, the kind of low hum that worked under your skin when your head was already pounding. I stepped through the doorway and paused.
Ivy stood at the med cart, restocking a row of ankle braces with one of the interns trailing behind her like a shadow. She didn’t look up right away, didn’t need to. She had eyes in the back of her head.
“You’re late,” she said, tone clipped. “Hydro’s already drained, and Mac’s reviewing your movement file in thirty.”
“I’m here,” I muttered, pulling off my hoodie.
She turned then, full body pivot, and gave me the kind of once-over that made rookies sweat. Her eyes dropped to my feet, scanned my posture, then came back up to my face. She didn’t blink.
“You ran hot all second half,” she said. “Heart rate didn’t come down once. And don’t tell me you were just ‘amped.’ I saw the tremor. So did Mercer.”
I clenched my jaw. “She flag me officially?”
Ivy stepped closer, arms crossing over her chest. “She did her job. She flagged what I missed in the moment. And if you have a problem with that, take it up with me—not her.”
“I don’t have a problem with her,” I said, sharper than I meant. I liked how Ivy stood up for Sloane, but I didn’t appreciate the anger in her eyes.
“Good,” Ivy replied. “Because she’s not the one hiding symptoms like a damn rookie trying to make a fucking roster.”
I looked away, heat crawling up my neck.
“You’re not invincible, Oli,” she continued. She always used that name to remind me she did care about me and was one of my best friends outside this stadium.
But her words were the hard truth and holding an edge that never used to be there. “And no one in this building expects you to be. But if you want to keep that number on your back, stop trying to play a fucking hero. That shit’s not brave. It’s reckless.”
I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t have something to say—but because she was right. Every word of it. She let the silence hang in the air, then took the clipboard from the cart and handed it to the intern.
“Stretch out. Hydrate. Tape gets redone before team meeting. And Oliver?” Her voice dropped enough that I had to meet her eyes again. “If you try to downplay anything in front of Mac, I will call you out in real time. Do not test me.”
I gave a stiff nod. She didn’t wait for it. She was already walking back toward the cold tub room, barking directions to one of the rookies about hydration charts.
A second later, Mac stepped out of the conference hall with a binder tucked under his arm and a coffee that still steamed. His eyes skimmed the hallway and landed on me.
“James,” he said. Not a greeting. Not a question. A summons.
I straightened, more alert. “Yes, sir.”
“Noon. Conference two. Come with clarity.” His voice didn’t rise, but his gaze narrowed.
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t stop walking as he spoke to William about something, their tones sharp and lacking the joy that should be there after a major win.
I exhaled and turned toward the performance wing, every step heavier than it should have been. I knew what that meeting meant. Either he’d grill me about the numbers or drop something worse. Maybe both. Maybe Mercer’s name would come up. I couldn’t decide which part made my chest tighten more.
I slowed near the corridor junction, instinct pulling me back instead of forward.
That was when she stepped out.
Sloane. Quarter-zip sweatshirt. Hair clipped back. Tablet in hand. Every part of her read professional and precise, like she’d never let her guard down once in her life.
She didn’t look at me.
She walked clean past, footsteps quiet, chin level, eyes locked straight ahead.
I turned slightly, enough to track her without moving. Waiting. Hoping for a glance. A flicker of something. Her shoulder brushed closer than it needed to, and still—nothing. It was like I was invisible, nothing to her, and I fucking hated it.
I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming like I was still mid-drive.
I dropped my empty water bottle into the bin beside the elevator and shoved both hands into my pockets.
Then I kept walking, no clear destination but to watch tape and face Mac, hoping I hadn’t wrecked her reputation along with my own.
The meeting was brief. Mac didn’t yell. He asked if I could maintain pace—then reminded me the League didn’t offer second chances for liabilities. I gave him the only answer I could: yes, sir.
Two hours later, I left.
The elevator spat me out into the main concourse level, harsh fluorescent lights stabbing through the low ache in the back of my head. My duffel weighed heavy on my shoulder, but I didn’t bother shifting it. Everything ached. Muscles, ribs, thoughts.
I’d done what I was supposed to. Stretch. Recovery tub. I’d nodded through Ivy’s checklist and answered Mac’s questions with one-word replies. I logged the film time. I checked the app. I didn’t ask about the report.
No one mentioned what happened last night in the stands, and that felt worse than if they had. The second I stepped into the parking lot, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
FaceTime: Callum.
I hit Accept without thinking and held the phone low as I walked toward my car.
“There he is,” Callum said, his grin already wide enough to be annoying. He had a smoothie in one hand and a Cubs cap on backwards. The background looked like a condo kitchen with zero adult supervision. “My second-favorite running back.”
“I’m your only running back, dick.”