Chapter 18 Oliver
OLIVER
The tunnel buzzed with static nerves and low chatter.
Shoulder pads creaked. Tape ripped. Cleats scraped against the concrete like war drums. It should’ve felt routine by now—my second start, my body dialed in—but the energy today was different.
Tighter. Not fear. Not even anxiety. Just a low, steady hum under my skin that hadn’t left since I left Sloane’s place Saturday morning.
Sloane’s voice was still in my head.
Her speech in the team room yesterday had leveled the entire damn place. No slides, no hesitation, no bullshit. Just calm authority, spine straight, her voice like steel laced with something almost gentler underneath. She didn’t ask for respect. She commanded it.
I hadn’t looked away once.
She hadn’t looked at me at all.
“Yo.” Noah nudged me with his helmet. “You okay, buddy?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out rougher than I wanted. “Locked in.”
“Cool. You’re making that face again, like someone kicked your puppy and ran off with your bike.”
“Thanks, man.”
He grinned and jogged ahead, but not before patting my shoulder pad with that knowing, annoying-best-friend energy. He was right though. I wasn’t locked in. I was spiraling.
Because I’d been a dick to her. Not because I was angry, but because I was hurt.
And yeah, maybe it felt justified at the time, but hearing her lay everything out this morning—professional, clear, brave as hell—I knew I’d fucked up.
She wasn’t pushing me away because she didn’t care. She was doing it because she did.
If it were my job on the line, I probably would've done the same thing. Backed off. Shut down. Tried to keep it clean.
Now I had to suit up and focus, knowing she was out there carrying the weight of both of us.
We were tied at twenty-seven with over a minute left on the clock. Fourth quarter. No time-outs. The stadium throbbed with noise—waves of sound crashing through the turf and into my spine. Every movement felt like it was underwater, too slow and too loud all at once.
Coach called zone left. Basic. Safe. But I could barely hear it over the pulse in my ears.
Quinn looked at me. “You good?”
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. My chest was tight. My ribs burned. But I needed this. I’d refused to quit, even now.
You can do this. One more play. One more minute. I pleaded with my body. Begged.
We broke the huddle.
Helmet down. Feet light. Eyes scanning.
Snap.
I followed Noah’s block, ducked my shoulder, and drove forward. The first hit came low. I bounced off it. The second hit knocked the breath out of my lungs. The third took my feet. I didn’t see the ground coming—I felt the thud vibrate up through my spine when I hit it.
The world went fuzzy at the edges. I blinked. Once. Twice. Static clung to the corners of my vision.
Get up.
I pushed to my feet, the field spinning for a second before leveling out. Ten more yards. One more play.
I didn’t look at the sideline. I didn’t want to see Ivy’s face or Sloane’s clipboard or Mac’s eyes locked on me like I was about to fail.
Coach signaled the next play—same call. Inside zone.
We lined up.
This time, the hole opened perfectly.
I slipped through and drove my legs like hell was behind me. A defender dove, clipped my knee, and I stumbled across the line—shoulder first—into the end zone.
Touchdown.
I stayed down for a second, staring at the sky.
The scoreboard flashed. Crowd roared.
We won.
I finally stood, my legs unsteady. My lungs couldn’t get enough air. The inside of my helmet felt a hundred degrees too hot.
By the time I reached the sideline, Ivy was already there, frowning, med kit in hand.
“Sit,” she said, guiding me down.
My heart pounded like a damn drumline. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I couldn’t breathe. Each gasp of air hurt.
“Heart rate’s 160,” she muttered. “Respirations, 24. BP’s 148 over 89. You’re not cooling, Oliver.”
I ripped my helmet off and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
“It’s fine,” I managed.
“It’s not.” She clipped the pulse ox on my finger. “You didn’t cool down during halftime. You spiked again. This isn’t cardio fatigue—it’s neurological stress.”
I searched the sideline, eyes catching on a black hoodie.
Sloane stood near the tent, clipboard in one hand, talking to Mac. When her gaze met mine, her eyes widened, and her pretty mouth parted in worry.
“I need her,” I said quietly.
Ivy shook her head. “She’s not your nurse. She’s your doctor. And you’re off the field. Don’t fight me on this, Oli. I’m fucking serious.”
The locker room buzzed like it always did after a win—laughter, slaps on the back, music turned up too loud—but none of it reached me.
I sat at my stall, elbows braced on my knees, still in my undershirt and pants, drenched with sweat and adrenaline I couldn’t shake.
My body ached in ways it hadn’t since college.
My chest was still too tight. My head too heavy.
Ivy checked on me once more before leaving. “Text me if anything worsens. I mean it, Oliver.”
I nodded.
I didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. Didn’t bother with the media. I changed into joggers and a hoodie, tugged the hood up, and left without saying much of anything. My head was pounding by the time I got home, but I didn’t want meds. Didn’t want to think.
I laid on the couch for a minute. Maybe five.
Next thing I knew, it was dark outside. The TV played replays on mute. My phone buzzed on the coffee table, unread messages piling up, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My limbs were heavy. My mouth dry. I couldn’t even remember falling asleep.
When I finally checked the time, it was 9:13.
Shit.
I sat up too fast. My chest seized. Sweat pooled at the back of my neck.
I was supposed to see her.
We hadn’t set a time, hadn’t confirmed it—but I’d told her we’d talk after the game. That we’d figure it out. That I’d show up.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and threw on the same hoodie, my body aching with each movement. I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed my keys and ran to her door.
By the time I banged on her apartment door, my heart was racing for all the wrong reasons.
What if she wasn’t home? What if I missed my shot?
What if she thought I didn’t care?
I knocked again, louder. “Sloane, please. It’s me.”
Silence.
Then, movement. The lock turned.
The door cracked open—and her eyes met mine. Relief, then anger flashed across her face as she moved out of the way to let me in.
“I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”
“You pushed yourself too hard today,” she said, leaning against the door.
She wore soft gray shorts and a long-sleeved Rampage t-shirt.
Her feet were bare with that damn toe ring, and god, I wanted to sink into her.
“You look like shit, Oliver. Are you—” She stopped short, her voice breaking a little.
“You scared the hell out of me. Are you okay?”
She reached up and cupped my face, dragging her fingers over my jaw as her eyes tightened with concern. She never touched me like this, with this desperation, with this care. I closed my eyes and leaned into her hand, grateful for this second.
I exhaled through my nose, my throat too dry to speak right away. Everything in me ached. My ribs, my head, my pride.
“Sloane,” I said, voice rough. “Can I hug you? Please. I really need a fucking hug.”
She closed the space between us, her arms looping tight around my waist. Her cheek pressed to my chest, right over my heart, and I swear her touch settled the rhythm in one beat.
I wrapped my arms around her like I’d never let her go.
One hand slid up her spine, the other cradled the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as she melted into me.
Her body was so warm. So soft. She fit against me like she belonged there.
My eyes closed.
I breathed her in—lavender and clean skin and something I couldn’t name but needed like oxygen. Her fingers curled into my shirt, gripping me hard like she was holding more than my weight.
The tension unwound from my chest. Not all of it. But enough.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured into her hair. “For making you worry. For... all of it.”
Her only answer was a tighter grip.
Her hug was pain and relief and heat and grounding all in one.
My skin buzzed where she touched me. Her thighs brushed mine.
Her breath warmed the side of my neck. And when I shifted slightly to pull her closer, her hand slid under the hem of my shirt, splaying wide over my lower back like she didn’t even realize she needed to touch skin.
I held her tighter. And when she let out a breath—shaky, uneven—it hit me straight in the chest. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She nodded against me, still not letting go of me. “I know we need to talk but I don’t want to let go of you.”
I chuckled, pleased at her words. “I know what you mean, but I need to apologize to you, and I prefer to do that when looking you in the eyes.”
“How are you twenty-six? You are so much more mature than most.” She slowly lifted her head, and I placed my finger on her chin, tilting it up so she stared up at me. My mouth was inches from hers, and it took all my effort not to lower down and kiss her.
“Does my age bother you, Sloane?” I rubbed my thumb over her bottom lip, a bolt of lust hitting me when her tongue wet her tongue.
Her cheeks pinkened. “I don’t… perhaps it does. Did.”
“Past tense?” I continued tracing my fingers over her lip, then her jawline. She leaned into me. “Because I’ve always had a fantasy about being with an older woman.”
“Oh my god, enough of that.” She laughed and shoved my hand away as she backed up a step. I missed her heat and her touch, but distance was best for what I wanted to say. “I’m not that old.”
“Didn’t say old, honey, just older.” I winked, letting the moment linger before I sighed.
“But hey, I want to apologize to you. I was selfish yesterday. My feelings were hurt, feeling so dismissed, and I only thought about myself, not you and how this could affect your career. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that ever, let alone at work. I won’t do that again.”
She rubbed her lips together, her pretty brown eyes softening. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I mean it. I hated myself after it. I refuse to be the reason you’re upset, and my words? They hurt you. I’ll be more careful with you next time, I promise.”
“I believe you.” She swallowed hard and played with the ends of her hair that rested at her shoulders. “What…what happened during the game today?”
Her voice was soft, almost uncertain, but the edge of worry underneath it hit me harder than anything I’d taken on the field.
I exhaled slowly and rubbed the back of my neck. “I pushed it. Too hard. I felt off mid-second quarter, but I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to get pulled. I wanted to prove I could be steady.”
Her face tightened. She crossed her arms over her chest again, not in defense—but like she was physically holding back from yelling at me. Or maybe from touching me again.
“Ivy said your vitals were spiking.”
“They were,” I admitted. “Vision blurred for a second. Pulse pounding and tight chest I couldn’t cool down. But I didn’t black out until the tunnel. I swear.”
She closed her eyes, jaw flexing. “Oliver…”
“I know.” My voice cracked on the words. “I fucking know. I should’ve told someone sooner. I was scared if I did, it’d mean I wasn’t ready. That people would doubt me. That you would.”
Her eyes snapped open at that, sharper now. “Don’t you dare put that on me.”
I shook my head fast, stepping forward, palms up. “No—I don’t mean like that. I mean… I didn’t want to disappoint you. After everything you’ve done for me, the work you put in—I wanted to be the version of me you could count on.”
Her expression broke, not into tears but something deeper. She stepped closer, her voice low and firm. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Oliver. Not your toughness. Not your pain tolerance. I already see you.”
My chest cracked open at her words.
“I wanted to be steady for you,” I whispered. “And I did the opposite.”
“You scared me.” Her voice was raw now. “But more than that, you scared yourself. And I need you to sit with that.”
I nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
We stood there in the middle of her kitchen, the post-game silence heavy around us. My shirt was still damp from the sweaty nap, her eyes still rimmed with tired concern, and even though I wanted to lean in again—wrap her back in my arms and hold her until I could finally exhale—I didn’t.
Because this part was hers.
“I don’t know what’s happening between us,” she whispered, barely enough for me to hear. “I’ve never felt this connection with anyone this fast before. It’s…I know I should stop it.”
No. “Why?”
“Because no one can know, Oliver. It’d have to be in secret, and I don’t think either one of us deserve that.” She looked up, her brown eyes filled with sadness. “I can’t date a player on the team I work at.”
“Okay, but if I wasn’t on the team?”
“Then I’d date you so hard.” She grinned, a little bit of that spark returning “But that’s not our reality.”
“No. It’s not.” I sighed, rubbing my hand up and down her back. “And I take it that you don’t want to date in secret?”
She shook her head, her shoulders slumping again. “I don’t think I do.”
“So we’re what… friends then?”
“God, that feels so shallow.” She stepped away from me, pinching her nose. “I don’t know what it means right now. I want to wrap myself around you in a hug and fall asleep. I sure as hell don’t feel that way about my other friends.”
“I have an idea,” I said, ignoring all the warning signs that said to back off. “How about we go to sleep and figure this,” I waved between the two of us, ”out later. We’re tired. I want to hold you as I pass out.”
She nodded, her lips curving up. “That sounds great.”
“Do we have a strict… no fondling rule, or can we have a repeat of the other night?” I teased, hoping it’d get her to smile.
Her entire face and neck turned red as she chewed the side of her lip. “Let’s…see what happens. It’d be better not to—just—cause you know, but if—”
“Honey, I’m teasing. I’ll be a gentleman, for the most part.”
She laughed, locked the door, and turned off the light. “Come on, big guy. Come to bed with me.”
“Fuck, that sentence was hot.”
I followed her, enjoying the ease in her shoulders and her slight laugh. We might not have figured a single thing out, but I wasn’t complaining. Any time with Sloane like this was worth it. Even if never kissing her again killed me, I’d accept anything she gave me.