Chapter 12 Oliver
OLIVER
Despite Sloane letting loose with us at the Cubs game and something shifting between us, a distance grew, and I hated it.
It had been a few days since I sat by her, laughed with her, and we hadn’t run into each other.
I went to Graham’s three nights in a row, hoping she’d show and I’d get a glimpse of the woman who snorted and cussed like a sailor while watching the game. Yet, she never came.
She never stopped by my place, and I definitely debated knocking on her door a few times but stopped myself.
I fucking hated this weird gray area, where something existed, but neither of us acknowledged it.
It lived in the tension of her absence. It echoed whenever I passed her office and didn’t hear her voice.
I wasn’t sure if I did something wrong or if this was how things went with her—burn hot, then vanish.
But whatever it was, it was crawling under my skin, and I wasn’t sure how long I could sit in the confusion without saying anything.
I had a meeting with her today, per Mac and Booth’s orders, and while it wasn’t for another few hours, I had to distract myself.
The mood at the stadium wasn’t helping. Hayes’s injury wasn’t only a hit—it was a gut punch to the entire facility.
It happened during a standard install rep—red zone, third down, nothing flashy.
He cut late on the post, and the corner didn’t hold back.
The crack of the helmets was loud, louder than it should’ve been on a Thursday.
He hit the turf without a sound. Just dropped. Didn’t move.
Ivy was the first one there, followed by a flood of med staff.
Booth cut the session immediately, but the damage was done.
Hayes looked hollow when they got him sitting up—eyes open but unfocused.
His hands twitched, then stilled. That was his third concussion in a year.
Everyone knew it. No one said it out loud.
But it sat in the locker room like smoke, thick and choking.
Mac had him pulled from all meetings. Full rest protocol.
Mercer was tapped for a cognitive screen, and Hayes hadn’t exactly been subtle about his hatred for therapy.
“I don’t need a shrink. I need a clear head,” he’d said once in the dining hall.
Now he was scheduled for a sit-down with her today, and I didn’t like it.
He’d been wound up even before the hit. If he spiraled in her office, it wouldn’t be the first time someone didn’t handle the news well behind closed doors.
Until then, I was trying to stay loose. No full practice scheduled today—just optional lift and film review.
Most of us trickled in, hit the tubs, grabbed protein, tried to look like we weren’t worried.
But we were. Everyone was. Hayes was a veteran.
Well-liked. If the League decided this was it for him, it’d send a message to the rest of us about how quickly a career could end.
The weight room buzzed with low music, the kind of background noise that was loud enough to keep thoughts from spiraling.
I slipped on a pair of gloves, adjusted the Velcro, and stepped into the squat rack to burn through some of these feelings.
Reps were good—they made me feel something besides the unease about Hayes and my own career and the worry about Sloane and her distance from me.
Pushing hard felt good, and my body felt good today, primed, tight. No heavy heartbeat or clouds.
That’s what was so fucking annoying about my body. Some days, I felt like I could fly.
“Light day,” Coach Avery, our strength and conditioning coach, called from the other side of the gym. He leaned on the dumbbell rack with his usual sharp eyes. “Three sets, four movements. Don’t be a hero, James.”
I nodded and dropped into my warm-up set.
The steel bar sat clean across my shoulders, weight manageable but heavy enough to ground me.
Every time I sank low and drove back up, I thought about the meeting later.
Sloane’s office. That clipboard she always held.
The way her voice changed when she went into work mode.
My third rep stuck for a half-second longer than it should’ve. I pushed through it, teeth clenched, and reracked the bar.
Jordan dropped onto the bench beside mine with a water bottle tucked under one arm. “You gonna kill that squat rack or marry it?”
“Not in the mood,” I muttered, annoyed at the interruption but also grateful to not be alone. I was always fucking alone at home, and it was exhausting.
“Didn’t ask,” Jordan said, but his voice came out softer, less smartass and more concerned. “Figured since you’re staring at that sled like it owes you child support, I’d check in.”
I peeled off my gloves and didn’t bother pretending I was fine. “I need to move today.”
“Same. I’ve been stress-chewing through protein bars all morning.” He tossed his towel toward the bench and sat beside me, bracing his elbows on his knees. “This Hayes shit is messing with me. It shouldn’t have even happened, ya know? Just…we’re all one injury away from ruining our careers.”
I exhaled slowly. His injury rattled me too, but his comment even more so. He had no fucking idea how much that statement plagued me every second of the day. “You think he’s out?”
Jordan didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together as he stared at the turf. “Three concussions in a year? Even if he clears protocol, the League’s gonna start asking questions. Mac already is. And you know Hayes… he won’t go quietly.”
I nodded once. “He left the locker room before Ivy even cleared him. Shoved one of the interns. Didn’t even blink.”
“That’s Hayes.” Jordan’s voice was laced with something heavier than usual. “When he’s on your team, you feel it. That intensity, that ride-or-die loyalty. He’s the guy who’ll start a fight to defend your name. But when that energy turns inward? It’s like trying to hold fire with your bare hands.”
My jaw clenched. “And now they’re sitting him in a room with Mercer. Telling him maybe he doesn’t get to do this anymore.”
Jordan turned to me slowly. “She’s good. Real good. But I don’t like that she might be in there alone. Not with someone like Hayes. Not if he feels like everything’s being taken away. Plus, concussions fuck with your personality. I’ve seen guys change completely from a head bang. Shit scares me.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of what none of us could fix.
We were players. Teammates. Witnesses to a system that moved too fast and left the bruised in its wake.
I looked toward the hallway where Sloane’s office sat tucked behind the training wing.
A prickle of worry edged its way down my spine.
Coach Avery called time on the lift block, and Jordan peeled off toward the turf with two of the rookies for footwork drills. I headed toward the cold tub, pulled my shirt over my head, and tried not to think about how quiet the rest of the facility felt.
By the time I’d hit the recovery room, checked in with Ivy, and reviewed my packet for Mercer, it was an hour until my appointment with Sloane and fuck it.
I wanted to hang out, get a glimpse of her before she went all clinical on me.
I knew the second I tried to ask about her, she’d go in Doc mode, and while I appreciated her role here, I missed the other version of her.
I showered, changed, and put on loose shorts and a Rampage T-shirt, hyperaware of the whispers and rumbles around the stadium all worrying about Hayes.
His concussion was on Wednesday, so twenty-four hours later, he had to meet with Mercer.
I hadn’t heard how his meeting went with her, and I was glad to have an appointment with her to make sure she was okay.
Hayes could rattle anyone with his large size and attitude.
I took the long way through the corridor, past the cold tub and the old nutrition room, pretending I wasn’t buying time.
The packet Ivy handed me was folded in half in my back pocket.
I wasn’t going to need it. I already knew what Sloane would ask.
My stats. My sleep. My HR readings. I didn’t care about any of that—I wanted to see her.
Her office door was almost closed. Not latched. The hallway was quiet, no trainers or interns passing by, just the buzz of the lights overhead. I was about to knock when I heard a voice—loud, angry. I was early. She wasn’t expecting me for another twenty minutes. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
But the second I heard Hayes’s voice, I stopped breathing.
“I’m not broken,” he snapped. Loud. Clipped. Like the words hurt to say. “I’m not some fucking charity case you fix with therapy buzzwords and printed PDFs.”
I froze mid-step, my fingers tightening around the folder in my hand. His voice didn’t sound pissed—it sounded unhinged and dangerous.
Sloane responded, calm but firmer than usual. She never raised her voice, and yet she did now, an edge of fear coming through. “This isn’t about labels. It’s about impact. Marcus, your last scan shows swelling around—”
“Don’t say that like it fucking means something,” he shouted.
Something heavy slammed down—maybe a book, or the back of his fist on her desk.
“You ever forgotten where you are mid-sentence? Woken up and not remembered your kid’s name?
You think that’s something you can score on your stupid little form? ”
Silence. Then her voice again—lower now, careful. “No. I don’t think that. But I think we need to understand where you are before anyone makes decisions.”
“You’re here to justify cutting me,” he snarled. “You and Mac, hiding behind medical clearance. Acting like you care when all you want is to bury me with the other has-beens. You don’t fucking understand. None of you do.”