Chapter 32 Oliver
OLIVER
The hall outside Sloane’s office felt smaller than before. I closed the door behind us and didn’t say anything for the first twenty steps. My heart was still hammering. Not dangerously fast but too hard in my chest.
She didn’t try to speak either.
We reached the back lot, quiet except for the dull roar of traffic from the freeway two blocks over.
The sun sat low. The kind of light I usually liked—calm, neutral.
But now, it felt heavy. She waited at the passenger door while I unlocked it.
Her hand brushed mine when I opened it. I didn’t move away.
I shouldn’t have wanted that comfort. I wanted space. I wanted silence. I wanted her to ask me if I was okay so I could say I wasn’t. But she didn’t ask, and I didn’t say it.
The drive took ten minutes. We didn’t play music. We didn’t talk. She stared out the window. I kept both hands on the wheel even though they didn’t feel steady. The silence didn’t feel like punishment. But it didn’t feel like peace either.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face when Mac said the words out loud. SVT. Six to eight weeks if I went under. Permanent restriction if I didn’t. And Sloane already knew it before I walked into that room.
I tried not to hate her for it.
But I did hate something. I hated that my sister thought I was thriving, that the crowd cheered last weekend like I was unstoppable, and that I had convinced myself that if I played well enough, nothing could touch me.
I hated that I had let myself believe I was finally okay. I hated that the life I wanted wasn’t possible.
The Cubs bar was nearly empty when we walked in. A couple of old regulars sat near the back, arguing quietly over stats and pitching calls. A new bartender looked up, gave us a nod. I couldn’t tell if he recognized us from a game or remembered we’d been here before.
Sloane kept her head down as we walked to the booth by the window. She slid in first. I sat across from her. My hands pressed flat against the table as I tried to feel something solid.
We didn’t touch. We didn’t reach for the menus.
“I wanted to come here. It’s our safe space. We’re not at work, and we’re not at our places. This is neutral ground. Figured we could talk here.”
“Sure, yeah.” She swallowed, her brown eyes filled with worry. “How are…what are you thinking right now?”
“I wish you told me sooner.”
She didn’t answer right away. When she looked at me, her expression was tired, sad. “I never intended or wanted to hurt you. Please know, while we work through this together, that never was the goal.”
“You didn’t hurt me. The diagnosis did.” That was the lie I needed to tell.
Because she had hurt me. Not intentionally. She did her job. She followed every rule as she told me she always would. Maybe it was selfish of me, but I wanted her to pick me first. Pick me over the job and tell me. But she didn’t.
I kept wondering if I looked weak to her.
If my body failing meant she saw me differently.
I’d spent months proving I was strong enough to survive what came before.
And now I had a chart that said I might not even be safe to run the ball ten yards without my heart going too fast. It was too uncertain.
When was it going to go rogue enough that I might not make it back?
She didn’t know what that did to me.
I thought about Rachel. About our email exchange. She said I looked calm, focused. Like myself again. She was proud. She didn’t know that the moment she sent it, I was sitting in diagnostics, trying not to pass out.
I had waited so long for her to come back. And now I didn’t even know how to answer. I swallowed hard, wishing this wasn’t me doing this. “I don’t know what to do, Sloane. You probably think I’m pathetic.”
“No. I won’t let you do this. Not as your girlfriend and especially because of what my role on this team is. You are strong, brave, resilient, and still allowed to be confused. Now, we’re gonna pro and con the shit out of this.”
Sloane reached for a napkin. She placed it between us on the table, then pulled a pen from her bag. She wrote a single line:
Option One – Ablation
I didn’t stop her.
She listed the recovery: six to eight weeks, monitoring, reconditioning, no contact until cleared. She passed me the pen.
I wrote: miss the rest of the season. Might not be ready for playoffs. Might lose my starting spot.
I stared at the napkin. My chest tightened. I couldn’t tell if it was the condition or the grief.
She took it back and turned it over.
Option Two – Medication
She wrote: play limited reps, constant HR tracking, clearance before each game
I added: risk of mid-game spikes, fatigue, no guarantee, potential for multiple medication and dosage changes
We sat in silence again. The napkin sat between us, a list of everything I didn’t want to admit out loud.
She reached across the table and touched the inside of my wrist. Her thumb brushed over my pulse point. My hand twitched, but I didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to decide tonight,” she said, her voice soft and comforting. “You have until Monday, and like any big decision, you shouldn’t make it right after hearing the news. Let it settle, think about what you want.”
“I know what I want.” I took her hand in mind, staring at the two moles near her palm. I loved her hands, how smooth her skin was. I didn’t meet her eyes when I traced my pointer finger over her palm, making circles.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I’m finishing this season.” I glanced up and stared at her.
“I want to start with medication. If we can control it with that, then I can still play like normal and not need to take time off. If for some reason it doesn’t work, I’ll look into the procedure in the offseason.
But only if the medication doesn’t help.
I can’t… the thought of walking away makes me want to throw up. ”
“Knowing you have to sit out Sunday’s game and possibly more?”
“Yeah.” I let go of her hand and gripped my neck, the tension of the unknown working its way down my body. She stared at me, lips parted and her brown eyes wide with worry. A rock formed in my gut as I second-guessed myself. I never second-guessed myself. “You don’t like that choice?”
She exhaled and rubbed her lips together before wincing. “Oliver, I’m…I’m not sure what I think matters right now. This is your choice.”
“Your face is loud though.”
“Yeah, you have this way to remove my walls. No one in my life would say my face is loud. Just you.”
My lips twitched. “Well, I like hearing you say that.”
Her gaze softened as she stared at the napkins, picking up the pros of waiting.
“As a doctor, I’d say finishing the season would probably be okay.
Especially if we can start you on a medication to help control your heart rate.
You’ve been battling this your whole life, and you’re healthy and aware of your limitations.
High altitude or sudden changes would mean you sit, but you’d still play most of the games if you pass clearance. ”
“I sense a but coming.”
“As someone who lo—cares about you, deeply,” she said, her brows pinching together. “I’m fucking scared.”
Lo? Was she gonna say love? I wanted to push her, but we both weren’t in the right headspace for confessions. Not now.
“Sloane,” I said, half-laughing. “Honey, I’m gonna be okay.”
“I know but it seems so risky. I don’t want you hurt. I’m not sure I can survive it.” She gulped again. “We need to talk about us.”
Alarm bells went off inside my head, every worst-case scenario in live-action. She thinks I’m weak. She’s over me. This isn’t real.
I opened my mouth to argue but stopped when her bottom lip trembled. I felt like an asshole. This wasn’t about me. It was about her. “What is it, Sloane?”
“I’m scared,” she said, her voice steadier this time. “Not because of your heart. But… because I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
My chest pulled tight. Keep calm. “What do you mean?”
She stared at me across the booth, her eyes red but focused.
“Lying to everyone. Sneaking around. I have my dream job right now, and Ivy figured us out, but what if Mac does? Or William? Or Booth?” She gulped, shook her head, and sighed with so much sadness I swore the sound landed in my soul.
“I could get fired or blacklisted for the rest of my career.”
“That won’t happen, Sloane.” I’d fight every step of the way. She wouldn’t lose her job or get put on some no-hire list. There was no way.
“You don’t know that. You are a player. The league is meant to protect you not me.” She ran a shaky hand over her throat, a blush covering her face. “I think… I need to resign.”
“No.”
She flinched.
“No,” I repeated, louder this time. “You’re not quitting because of me.”
“It’s not just because of you,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “I want this… you and me, to have a real chance. I want you to meet my brother. I want to go on dates with you. I’ve never felt like this with anyone, ever.”
“I want that too, but you’re not quitting.”
“I don’t want to,” she whispered. “But it’s the right thing to do. I’m too biased, too involved. It goes against my professional associations code. I think it’d be best for all of us.”
I clenched my jaw, then released it. “They need you, Doc. There has to be some example of people working together on the same team. Jesus, we’re not the first.”
“Sure, but the downfall of this won’t touch you. Just… me.”
The thought of her leaving gutted me. This was her dream.
This was her place in the world, and she was meant to be here.
God, for half a second, I thought about quitting.
If I walked away, then no surgery, no football, and we could be together.
Although even walking away didn’t change the diagnosis.
I was still labeled with a problem that needed treatment.
But then I’d only have her. Not a team wanting me to succeed.
I'd be more of a burden to her, and that would be irrational. I couldn’t become deadweight.
I wanted her to rely on me, see me as someone who’d take care of her, be there for her, and I couldn’t be without football.
I leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop hiding.”
She blinked, eyes wide, filled with a hope that wasn’t there. “What are you saying?”
“Let’s get through the season. Just the season. After that, I’ll walk away if I have to. You don’t have to make the call right now. Not today.”
“You’d leave the team for me? Oliver, no.”
“If it came to that?” I nodded, hard. “Yeah, I fucking would, Sloane. But we don’t have to make that call, not yet. I’ve got games left in me. I want the playoffs. I want to finish what I started this season.”
Her expression crumpled for half a second before she looked down again. “I’ve written my resignation email three times,” she said. “But I haven’t sent it.”
“And you’re not going to.”
She looked up at me again, really stared. “Oliver…”
“This will work out. I have a feeling.” I took her hand and kissed her knuckles, one at a time. “We finish the season, then I go through the surgery if it’s the last option, and that gives us time to figure out what to do.”
She didn’t need to know I was going to do research and find a way for us to be together on the team. I already had a plan forming. I’d call my agent first thing. “Does that sound good? Can you promise me not to send that email?”
“Look at you taking care of me when I should be there for you.” She sniffed, an odd combination of a laugh and a cry.
“Still haven’t promised me.” I stood, slid out of my side of the booth, and moved in next to her.
She shifted automatically, making space like she knew I was coming. I sat close, pressing my thigh against hers, and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm. Her eyes were glassy. She looked at me like she wanted to believe it could all still work.
I cupped her face gently, my thumb brushing along the edge of her cheekbone. She leaned into my touch without hesitation. I bent forward until our foreheads touched.
“Sloane,” I whispered. “I love you. You said you’ve never felt this way about anyone. Well, neither have I.”
She reached for my wrist, fingers wrapping around it tight.
“You and I are in this,” I said. “It’s gonna be weird. It’s gonna be complicated. But it’s you and me.”
I kissed her forehead, then the spot above her ear. She exhaled through her nose, shaky and soft, and turned her face toward mine.
I didn’t rush the kiss. I didn’t try to take more than she gave. I pressed my lips to hers, slow and sure, and stayed there until I felt her relax.
When I pulled back, I kept my hand on her jaw.
“Okay?” I said.
She nodded once. “Okay.”
And for the first time since the diagnosis, I believed we might find our way through this.