Chapter 27 Sloane #2
Mac exhaled slowly. “You think he knew it was coming?”
“He’s not wired to ask for help. Not unless it’s too late.”
William entered without knocking, dropping a folder on the table before taking the open seat beside Ivy. “Cardiac panel’s in. Elevated but not acute.”
Booth looked at me again. “Your recommendation?”
“Short-term hold,” I said. “Limit all physical activity. Neurocognitive screenings daily. No League reporting unless symptoms recur or worsen.”
“Are you confident he’s not a risk to himself?” Mac asked.
“I’m confident he’s overwhelmed, not unstable,” I answered. “He’s not showing signs of depressive collapse or avoidance. He came to me. He didn’t shut down completely. He’s scared, but he’s still present.”
William tapped his pen against the folder. “We need to track his resting HR tonight. I want him hydrated and off all stimulants. No caffeine, no supplements. Full sleep cycle.”
“I’ll follow up with him directly,” I said. “He listens better in quiet settings.”
Ivy glanced between all of us. “We need to be smart about how this circulates. Players talk. If we overreact, he’ll lose the room. If we underreact, we put him at risk.”
Booth finally leaned back. “So we keep it internal.”
“Yes,” I said. “If this were any other player, we’d treat it the same way. Elevated vitals, controlled response, monitored return.”
Mac didn’t argue. “Fine. You monitor stress and cognition. William oversees medical. Ivy handles compliance.”
I reached for my tablet. “I’ll check in with him before he leaves.”
No one pushed for more. They didn’t have to.
We all wanted the same thing—Oliver healthy, protected, and still on the field.
But only if he could handle it. And right now, that wasn’t a certainty.
Ivy held my gaze longer than the rest, her eyes narrowing as she fisted her hand.
Her and Oliver were friends, had been for a long time, and she also kept things in.
I hoped the look she gave me was in solidarity, not accusation.
Swallowing the unease, I nodded to her then left the room, giving myself a second to breathe in and out. Oliver was safe, he was fine, for today. We’d ensure he always would be, and that was when it hit me.
I cared about him. Deeply. The thought of anything happening to him caused me physical pain, deep in my chest, and that terrified me. How could I have these feelings for someone who could destroy my career? Who could hurt themselves to the point they might not make it?
No.
Be better than this. I forced myself to push those thoughts away. I could worry about those later at home. I was a professional, and I had a job to do. I stood taller, forced my face to relax, and clutched my tablet to my chest. I’d be able to face him later and be objective. I had no choice.
I found him in the cold recovery room. Hoodie still on. Eyes fixed on the floor.
He sat at the far end of the table, legs spread, shoulders hunched forward like he hadn’t moved since William unhooked the leads.
The wires were gone, and his vitals had stabilized enough to clear him from medical hold—for now.
But I could still see it. The heaviness in the way he kept his hands clenched in his lap.
The tension in his jaw when he heard the door open but didn’t look up.
I closed it behind me and walked to the other side of the room. Gave us distance.
“You’re done for today,” I said, keeping my tone even. “William signed off on the panel. You’re cleared to leave the facility.”
His eyes flicked toward me for a second, but then he stared at the ground. My breath caught in my throat, the urge to move toward him and touch him overtaking me. I felt for him, for the devastation on his face.
He said nothing, so I continued. “You’ll report back to me tomorrow morning. No morning workout. No team drills. You’re on rest protocol until I say otherwise.”
He nodded once, barely more than a twitch.
“Did they ask what happened?” he asked finally, voice quiet.
“They asked what they needed to know, that was all.”
He swallowed hard. “Did you tell them?”
“No.”
That got him to look at me. His eyes weren’t angry. They weren’t grateful either, just exhausted.
“I told them it was cumulative stress,” I added. “That you’d been trending up and finally hit a limit. That’s the truth. I didn’t repeat anything said in that meeting. I didn’t frame it as emotional or physical instability. I didn’t submit anything that would flag you to the League.”
“You sure they believed that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He ran a hand over his face, slow and deliberate. “I’m not soft.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
His shoulders tensed again. “But that’s what they think now, right? Booth. Mac. Everyone.”
“No,” I said. “What they see is a player with abnormal vitals under performance stress. What they trust is the medical team’s assessment. That includes mine.”
He didn’t answer, but the tension shifted. He was less defensive. More exposed.
I checked my tablet. Pulled up his sleep log, hydration tracker, stress index. The data told me he was stable enough to walk out on his own. But nothing on the screen explained the fact that he hadn’t said more than twenty words since his monitoring.
“Your resting HR dropped sixty points since the episode,” I said. “That’s significant. And good, especially you not being symptomatic with that drastic of a drop.”
He didn’t react and kept staring at the wall.
I wanted to sit down. I wanted to talk to him like I had in the closet, quiet and slow, nothing between us. But I couldn’t do that here. I couldn’t cross that line again—not with the weight of that meeting still pressing into my ribs.
So I stood still and kept my tone professional, knowing that the second I got home I’d go to him.
“I’ll be running your neurocognitive screen first thing tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll text you the time. You’ll need eight hours of sleep and no pre-workout supplements. No film. No lifting. Just rest.”
“Right.”
“Are you okay to go home alone? Or do you want me to schedule something for you?”
He hesitated. “No, I can handle it.”
“Okay, I’m trusting you and your assessment of your body. You did everything right in that moment,” I said. “You didn’t push it. You didn’t hide. You let me help. That matters.”
He finally met my eyes, a flicker of unease there. “I wish you hadn’t seen it.”
“Oh, I’m glad I did.”
He blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t see any weakness there. I saw a person who’s been carrying too much for too long, without a place to set the stress down.
That’s not failure, Oliver. That’s being human, and I’m glad you trusted me enough to help you through it.
I’m grateful I could be there for you… I want to be there for you. Here…and off the field.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. He looked away before he could answer.
I picked up my tablet, backed toward the door, and stopped before leaving.
“If anything spikes tonight, you call Ivy. If you feel even slightly off, you call me. No waiting. No pushing through it.”
He nodded.
“And if you don’t answer tomorrow morning, I’ll come find you.”
That earned a breath of something like a laugh. “Yes, Doc.”
I left before I said something I couldn’t keep in the report.