Chapter 26 Oliver
OLIVER
We were already four weeks into the season, and everything about my body felt louder than usual.
The soreness lingered longer than I wanted to admit.
Every movement felt a fraction heavier, a little less fluid.
The trainers kept insisting I looked great on paper—weight stable, vitals in range, muscle recovery solid—but none of that accounted for the low-grade hum in my chest or the way I had to force myself to focus through drills.
Tuesday started with light film and position meetings.
I sat between Jordan and Quinn, trying to absorb the corrections while they traded barbs about Sunday’s loss.
Quinn swore he’d tweak the route timing, while Jordan blamed the turf for a near-fumble.
Noah wandered in with a breakfast sandwich and two coffees, tossing one sandwich at me without a word. It was his way of checking in.
We didn’t talk about Denver, not directly. But it was there, behind every lifted eyebrow and mumbled comment. Everyone was thinking about altitude. About breath. About stamina.
By the end of Tuesday, my chest felt tight again. Not painful—just restrictive. I reported to Ivy for vitals and sat still as she wrapped the cuff. Her eyes flicked over the readings, her brow pinched slightly tighter than usual.
“Are you sleeping? Eating?” she asked, her tone twinged with worry.
“Yeah, I’ve been sleeping great.” It was the truth too. I’d spent every night with Sloane this week, wrapped around her and waking up more rested than I’d been in years. So I had no idea why I felt off.
Ivy marked the readings—BP elevated, resting heart rate up eight beats per minute from my baseline—and hadn’t said anything else. But I felt her attention on me more than normal.
Wednesday’s walk-through dragged. I felt every yard in my legs. My body didn’t want to fire. Routes I normally cut with precision were a step off. My breath ran shallow halfway through my reps. Quinn caught up with me near the sideline.
“You good, man?” he asked, passing me a towel. “You’ve been lagging all week.”
“Just focused,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I intended. I was fucking annoyed at myself. I was happy outside of the field, and yet my body’s reaction on the field was the opposite. I hadn’t felt this tired and off in years. “I refuse to lose to Denver.”
He narrowed his eyes but didn’t push. Jordan wasn’t subtle.
“You either need more sleep or more sex,” he said under his breath as we ran warm-ups.
“Get it figured out before we hit altitude. I’m not dragging your ass around Denver, and you are right, my man.
If we lose to Fisher ‘Hook ‘em’ Jameson, my uncle will haunt my ass.”
Jordan had a feud with the starting QB at Denver for years, something about their family rivals, and usually I found it amusing, but I didn’t have the energy for it today.
I forced a laugh and hit his shoulder pad, then shuffled off the field to sit down for a second.
Just to catch my breath, slow my pulse. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.
I was the best I’d been in a while, happy even, so there was no fucking reason for my body to betray me like this.
I rubbed my temples, willing my pulse to settle when the thought of a cold shower had me standing.
I didn’t make it two steps before Mac found me.
"Upstairs. Now."
He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. Just gave me that look—the one that said this wasn’t optional. My stomach sank at the implications. My first thought was Sloane. Did they see us tease each other in the parking lot?
I knew better than to flirt with her, but I couldn’t stop myself. She’d never forgive me—fuck. My pulse raced again as I followed him to the admin suite, my cleats still on, turf sticking to my socks. The adrenaline from walk--through had drained out, replaced by a creeping weight in my chest.
Booth was already there, arms crossed, standing by the windows. Ivy sat in the corner, flipping through a report. And behind the desk—Sloane. Clipboard on her lap, tablet lit, mouth in a hard, flat line.
"Close the door," Mac said.
I did.
"Sit down," Booth ordered.
I dropped into the chair across from the desk, jaw tight. My shirt stuck to my back. I hadn’t had water since warm-ups, and with all their eyes on me, I felt under the microscope.
This was my worst fear. God. Would Sloane be in here if it was about her? Or was this something else?
"We’ve been monitoring your vitals all week," Ivy started. "Your BP’s high. HR taking longer to come down post-activity. You’ve been sluggish on drills."
"I’m fine," I said.
"No, you’re not," Sloane said, and it was the first time she looked directly at me. Her voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was clinical. "You're red-zoning every session. That’s not something we can overlook."
"You all think I can’t handle Denver?" There was an edge to my voice, anger, betrayal. Rationally, I knew I was off, I’d felt it. I also knew they all were doing their damn jobs.
"Not without a workup," William said, appearing in the doorway. "No one’s saying you're benched. However, unless Sloane clears you by Saturday, you don't get on the field."
"This is ridiculous. I’ve been worse and played through it,” I said through clenched teeth.
"That’s exactly the problem," Mac snapped. "This isn't college. This isn't spring ball. We’re four weeks in, and if your heart rate spikes in the altitude, we’re not looking at cramps. We’re looking at risk. Real fucking risk, James.”
I clenched my fists on my thighs. My pulse roared in my ears. They were talking around me, like I was a problem to be solved.
Sloane stood, walked around the desk, and crouched beside me. "This isn’t a punishment. This is about protecting you and your future career, Oliver.”
I stared at the floor. My throat burned.
"I need a full cardiac workup," William said. "We'll run it today. Sloane will oversee your mental test. If anything flags, you sit. Nonnegotiable."
I nodded once. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I hated this. Hated being treated this way.
They filed out slowly, Mac and William silent as Ivy squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll handle you being pissed at me, but I’d take that a million times over your heart giving out, Oli. So be pissed but stay healthy. Got it?”
I didn’t nod. I patted her hand, giving my oldest friend the only reassurance I could offer. My eyes stung at the realization my time could be up. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t fucking want to stop.
The door clicked, and Sloane’s soft voice filled the space. “Hey, are you okay?”
I wanted to say no. That I hated this. That I was scared shitless. But all I managed was, "Do you believe them? Do you believe I could fucking fall apart?”
She met my gaze, unwavering, intense as she chewed the side of her lip. "I believe in protecting you at all costs, even if it’s protecting you from yourself.”
“Fuck.” I pushed off the chair, gripping my sweaty hair in my hands until it stung. My stomach hollowed out, the wave of nausea hitting me hard as I bent over. I knew what I had to do, and I didn’t want to fucking do it in front of Sloane. “I gotta go.”
“Wait!”
I didn’t wait. I sprinted out of the room and scrambled down the hall toward an empty bathroom.
My vision blurred, and I shoved a door open, not caring that it was a utility closet.
It was unlocked, and I fell to the floor, heart racing out of fucking control as sweat beaded over my entire body.
This part was suffocating, where I gasped for breath and my limbs ached.
Breathe. In. Out. Tap your fingers. Bear down Repeat.
I lay on my back, resting the balls of my feet against the wall as I focused on lyrics to “I was Made for Loving You” by Kiss. My dad always listened to it on the drive to dropping me off at practice, and it became my anthem to settle when these little episodes happened.
I got about thirty seconds into the song when the door opened, followed by Sloane’s gasp.
Shame ate at me. The feeling was so aggressive, like a stab in my stomach at what I imagined she saw.
Me: weak, pathetic, on the dirty floor trying not to cry or throw up.
Trying to get my heart back into its normal rhythm.
She’d tell Mac, Ivy, Booth. She’d have me benched.
She’d know I was pathetic and broken, and it was for the best. That I couldn’t be counted on.
I clenched my eyes closed, inhaling and exhaling despite the uptick to my pulse.
Sometimes, I’d get full body chills. Other times, I’d pass out for a few minutes.
It wasn’t often I actually threw up, but it had happened.
I tensed, waiting for her to tell me I was done. For her to tell me to get up and to report me to Mac. I couldn’t even be mad at her. I’d forgive her for it too, that was the thing. I could never be mad at Sloane.
The door clicked, and my throat tightened. She left me.
That was… worse, somehow.
My stomach sank even lower, that she thought I was too pathetic to talk to, and I fisted my hands, digging my nails into my palms.
“Lift your head for me.’
I blinked my eyes open as Sloane lowered herself onto the closet floor, covered in dead bugs and dust. The relief was so sudden, my eyes prickled as she sat criss-cross and lifted my head to rest on her lap.
She didn’t say anything at first.
She shifted her legs slightly so I could rest against her more evenly. Her fingers moved straight to my forehead—pressing into the tightest part above my brow bone, massaging small, steady circles. I let my eyes close again, her touch calming me.
“Your pulse is still elevated,” she said, calm and measured. “I’m going to help bring it down first, okay?”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak. My throat felt like sandpaper.