Chapter 17 Sloane
SLOANE
The stadium parking lot was half full when I pulled in, but the hush that followed me into the building was louder than any crowd. No one greeted me. No one nodded. Not even the front desk intern looked up from her monitor. It was protocol. Quiet was respect.
My Vans scuffed softly as I walked the main corridor toward the administrative wing.
I wore black joggers, a team shirt, and the same jacket I wore during onboarding.
My hair was in a tight bun. My nails were clean.
No makeup but powder and clear gloss. Every detail calculated.
Every layer of me exactly what they expected.
By the time I entered the conference room, William, Mac, Ivy, and Benson were already seated.
Mac nodded once. “Dr. Mercer.”
I sat at the opposite end, opening the manila folder I’d reviewed four times already. “Thank you for meeting early.”
William leaned back in his chair, unreadable. Benson gave me a small nod, and Ivy looked at me the same way she had in the hallway that first day—curious but cautious. I appreciated it.
“Where are we on the report?” Mac asked, already scrolling on his tablet.
I handed out copies. “Documented timeline of events. Direct quotes from Marcus. Damage inventory of my office. Witness account from Oliver James. Supplemental notes from Ivy’s triage record.
Audio log from Hayes’s compliance sessions is flagged in red.
All materials have been uploaded to the shared legal folder. ”
No one spoke right away.
Ivy’s fingers curled slightly around the page as she read through the section documenting the chair throw and shattered frame. Her eyes flicked to mine, her brows pinched in something that looked too much like worry.
“Jesus, Sloane,” she muttered, voice low but not dismissive. “The proximity escalation... you could’ve been seriously hurt.”
Mac leaned forward slightly, his elbows braced on the table. “How’s your hand?” He sucked in a breath, and his gaze moved toward my forehead. “And the head?”
I glanced down at it—bandaged again, tightly this time. “Superficial lacerations. Small abrasion at the hairline. No stitches required. The head is good now.”
William closed the file, but his eyes stayed on me. “That wasn’t what he asked,” he said, his tone almost with worry.
I met his gaze head-on, surprised at how steady mine was. “I’m fine. Still a little sore. Nothing I can’t manage.”
Something shifted in his expression—less skepticism, more calculation. Then, a nod. Subtle. Measured. Respectful.
Mac exhaled. “Good. We’ll run with your neuro recommendation. HR and legal already started the paperwork for indefinite leave.”
“I’ll stay in contact with the league office,” Ivy said. “They’ll want all the logs.”
“Benson,” Mac added, “make sure Facilities reviews the badge logs. And confirm his access is revoked by end of day.”
He nodded. “Already in motion.”
William tapped the cover of the report again. “What are we saying publicly?”
That silenced the room. Everyone looked at me.
I straightened. “We say very little. A league-mandated leave of absence tied to medical evaluation. We don’t use words like ‘incident’ or ‘investigation.’ We keep it clinical.”
Mac nodded, already scrolling through his tablet. “And if the press pushes?”
“Have PR draft a joint statement between the team and league medical,” I said. “Keep it focused on safety and player health. I’ll send notes to the comms team.”
William tilted his head. “You want to be involved in the language?”
“I need to be,” I said, and no one argued. That alone filled my chest with a warm pride.
A moment passed before I added, “I’ll also reach out to the players closest to Hayes. His unit. I’ll hold a small check-in Monday morning. No formal group briefings until we gauge the mood.”
Mac looked up, blinking. “Monday? Sloane—no. You’re off for the week. I’m serious.”
“I’ll take the rest of Monday off after,” I said, dryly. “But I’m not taking off an entire week, Mac. If I need time, I’ll ask for it. Promise.”
That earned a few snorts. Even William cracked the barest smirk.
But I didn’t miss the way Mac looked at me before shifting back to his notes. A little softer. A little more like someone who might trust my judgment.
I also didn’t miss the way William sat a little straighter as he tucked the protocol back into its folder. Like maybe—for the first time—I was exactly the person they needed me to be.
This. Right here. This was the version of me I’d spent years trying to build. Polished. Clear. Unshakeable under pressure. The woman who walked into a legal debrief bruised and still held the room. I should’ve felt proud, but all I felt was torn.
Because hours ago, I was in bed with Oliver, tangled in his arms, letting him hold me while I broke down.
He saw every crack. He touched every soft, hidden part of me.
And I let him. Not just physically—emotionally.
I let him in deeper than I ever had with anyone.
And I liked it. God, I liked it too much.
My stomach clenched. The weight of the kiss settled beneath my ribs, hot and heavy and undeniable. I shouldn’t have let it happen, but I didn’t regret it.
I pressed my thumb to the edge of the table, grounding myself against the rise of panic building behind my ribs.
I didn’t regret him. I couldn’t. He was kind and steady and so genuine.
He never once asked for more than I could give—but I wanted to give him more.
I wanted to let myself have him. That was the part that scared the shit out of me.
Because what happened this morning wasn’t a hookup despite my intentional words to push him away.
It was something else. Something weighty. Honest. Like we peeled ourselves open and neither of us looked away. The problem was: I couldn’t afford to feel like that. Not right now. Not with this job.
I had finally earned a seat at this table. After years of being underestimated, overqualified, passed over for men with louder voices and less credentials—I was here. I was being listened to. Trusted. Respected. One mistake, one rumor, one wrong narrative, and I could lose all of it.
And if someone found out about me and Oliver…
I felt like I was split down the middle. Half of me still carried his touch on my skin. The other half was already preparing for the next closed-door meeting.
I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to erase what we shared. But I also didn’t know how to keep both pieces of myself without one falling apart.
So I sat up straighter. Smoothed my sleeve. Took a slow breath.
Because the only thing worse than hurting Oliver… was losing this. Losing everything I’d worked for when I was finally being seen. I didn’t know what to do with that truth.
“Players are arriving in an hour. Take some time to deal with this shit, then refocus. Sloane, are you staying or heading home?” Mac asked, his eyes softening as he stared at me.
“Mac.” I scoffed, standing and smoothing my shirt. “I’m not fucking going home.”
“Atta Doc,” Mac’s lips twitched but then he stood. The meeting concluded, everyone standing up, and William approached me, face passive and lacking his usual smug smile.
“Hey, are you sure you don’t need anything?” He pointed toward my forehead. “You’re bruising, which is a good sign, but not sure you were officially cleared.”
“They are all superficial cuts, no real hit or damage, but thank you.”
“Let me know if things don’t feel better after the game tomorrow. When those cuts are deep, they can do damage. And hey,” he said, gripping the back of his neck and his voice shifting. “I’m sorry this happened to you. Hayes is a massive guy, and that would’ve scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah well,” I replied, clearing my throat as some lingering fear remained. “Luckily, I’m okay.”
“Yeah. I’m glad.” He tapped his knuckles on the table and nodded. “See you later, Doc.”
He called me Doc. That was a first.
I exhaled, my hands trembling from the adrenaline and extreme emotions I’d experienced the last twelve hours.
The air in the facility buzzed with quiet tension.
Saturday mornings before home games were always a blur of final walk-throughs, player treatments, and silent mental prep.
I walked the halls with my tablet in hand, checking off appointments and player notes while actively avoiding the training room.
Or more specifically, the man likely in it.
I hadn’t seen Oliver since I left him in my apartment, yet he’d been on my mind the entire time. I needed to talk to him, to try to explain why I had to stop this between us… the pain in his voice and on his face gutted me. He was the last person I ever wanted to hurt, but damn, this job…
I was twenty feet from the conference suite when I heard his voice.
“Sloane.”
I turned before I could stop myself.
He stood in the hallway past the rehab room, sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his chest, his face tight with exhaustion and something sharper. His jaw twitched. His mouth opened, then closed. “Are you okay?” he asked, the deep timbre so familiar to me now.
I nodded, hating once again he was checking on me. “Yeah, think so. Are… you?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, his jaw flexing as he held my gaze. A million emotions crossed his face, anger being one of them. My chest ached to erase that twisted expression, knowing I caused it, but I couldn’t do that here. “Oliver,” I pleaded, stepping closer to him.
It was only us in the hallway. No footsteps or cleared throats or hums near us, yet I put up a hand, almost for myself instead of him. “We shouldn’t talk here.”
“Oh? We shouldn’t talk at the stadium, where we both work? That’s the move now?” He ran his tongue over his teeth, his gaze sharpening. “Got it, Doc.”
“Oliver, no, I meant—”
“Well aware of what you meant. Message received. How about you let me know when I’m allowed to matter again? Send me a calendar invite.”