Chapter 34 Oliver
OLIVER
Despite kissing her an hour ago, I quickly sent her a text. Can’t wait to see you tonight.
She sent back a heart emoji immediately. Content, I pocketed my phone and waved at the security guard near the tunnel.
The facility was already buzzing. Staff checking lists. Equipment managers triple-counting pads and gloves. Coaches talking in hushed tones behind clipboards.
I walked straight into the locker room. The air was thick with menthol, disinfectant, and sweat.
The usual. It felt like coming home after a long vacation.
If anything, the break made me realize I loved football.
I loved it for me and not for all the outside pressures.
Made me want to be healthier so I could play as long as I wanted.
My cleats were under my stool. Fresh laces.
Socks rolled tight in a bin to the left.
Everything was where it should be. Except me.
My heart was too loud. Not racing. Not high enough to call it a spike. But elevated. Buzzing under the surface like my body was bracing. It missed the action. Hell, I missed the action. I dressed, ready to fucking play.
“Look who’s back,” Jordan said as he walked by. He slapped the back of my shoulder pads. “You better be ready, man. We need you out there.”
“Always,” I said, though it didn’t sound like me. My voice felt off.
“Good. Because Ty’s already threatening to steal your nickname.”
I gave him a weak smile. All the confidence from before slipped, and my stomach gave way to nerves. This was fucking stupid. I felt great, meds were doing their job, and this was pre-game jitters. I took a calming breath as Ivy walked in with a smile.
“Let’s get you wrapped, Oli. Just like old times.”
“Old? Jesus. College was five years ago,” I replied, laughing as she taped my ankles to be safe. I propped my foot on the stool and let her work. Same tightness. Same pressure points. Ankle first, then calf support. My left knee wasn’t flagged, but I asked for a compression wrap anyway.
“How ya feeling?” she asked, a little quieter.
“You know I passed clearance, Ivy,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her.
“That’s not what I was asking and you damn well know it.” She pulled the tape harder, making me look at her. She glared at me, worry on her face. “You know your limits. You always have. Don’t be a hero today. If you feel off, you come off the field. Please, Oli.”
“I will, Ivy. I promise.” I smiled and held out my fist. She hit the side of it three times, like we did back at Central State. “Thank you.”
She patted my knee and moved onto another player, letting me finish suiting up. Music blared from one of the guys, a techno version of a rap song that had my adrenaline going. This was the shit I lived for. To run out on the field with these guys again.
William flagged me down twenty minutes later, monitor in hand. “Vitals check.”
I followed him down the short hallway to the diagnostics room. He clipped the probe on my finger and pulled up the app on the tablet. “Resting HR?” he asked.
“Last night was mid-70s.”
He checked the overnight data. “Confirmed.”
He looked at me. “How’s your chest?”
“Quiet.”
He nodded but didn’t smile. “Good. Keep breathing steady. If you feel anything shift, even slightly, you tell me. No delay.”
“Got it.”
“Say it again.”
“I’ll tell you. Damn, Ivy gave me the speech too.”
“Because we’re good at our job and want you healthy, James. Nothing more than that.” He sighed, stepped back, and waved me on. “You’re cleared. Kick ass. I fucking hate Wisconsin.”
I walked back into the locker room. Most of the guys were already half-dressed. Helmets sat lined up on the table. Gloves were tucked into waistbands. The music was louder now—something old-school Ty always played to get hyped. I felt the rhythm of it in my teeth.
I sat and adjusted my pads. My hands shook a little as I pulled the straps tight. I kept my eyes on the floor as I adjusted. No one was watching me, but I felt like they were.
I pulled my jersey on and exhaled through my nose.
Booth gave the team talk. He stood in front of the lockers, same words as always. Control the line. Stay on assignments. Make your reps count. Trust each other. The usual stuff.
I stepped onto the field as the announcer called our names.
My cleats hit the turf, and everything else faded.
The crowd roared, but I kept my eyes on the far end zone.
One play at a time. I was back. I could fucking do a backflip I was so excited.
Nervous, yes, but ready. Exactly where I should be.
Jordan slapped my helmet as we broke into stretch lines. “Took you long enough.”
“Missed me?”
He grinned. “Don’t get dramatic, 22. Just do your job.”
Quinn jogged over from the other side of the field, bouncing in place like he’d already had too much caffeine. “No cramps today, old man?”
“Keep my lanes clean, and we’ll find out.”
He smirked and ran back to the huddle.
Coach Booth stood behind the O-line group as we ran warm-ups. He wasn’t yelling today. Just watching. Focused. Like he was ready to pounce if one of us slipped.
We won the toss. Took the ball.
The first drive was scripted. Eight plays. Fast pace. Mostly inside zone and short reads. I lined up left of Quinn in the backfield and waited for the snap. The linebacker stared straight through me.
Quinn called the audible. I picked up the change. Inside handoff.
Snap. Ball. Contact.
I hit the gap between Noah and Ty and broke for six. Clean. Crisp. Controlled. The sound of the collision hit a beat later, but I’d already planted and reset.
“Welcome back,” Noah muttered as we reset for second down. “No one runs like you do, my dude.”
The next play was a short pass. I blocked and peeled out wide. No throw. Quinn kept it. First down on a QB draw. Jordan ran back laughing, shoulder-checking Quinn on the way. “Look at you being sneaky.”
We drove downfield in six minutes. The defense tried to jam me inside. I bounced wide and took eight on the edge. On second and two, Booth called a counter left behind Noah’s pull. I followed him through the gap and cut right when the safety over-pursued.
I didn’t score, but I got us to the five.
Booth pulled me for the red zone package. I tapped Jordan’s helmet as I passed him. “Finish it.”
He winked. “Always.”
We scored two plays later on a corner route. The stadium lit up. The crowd went off. First blood.
Back on the bench, I grabbed my water and adjusted my pads. Ivy passed by and gave me a quick nod. Sloane stood farther back, tablet in hand, watching. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t look away either. I nodded, needing her to nod back, to acknowledge I was okay, that I was fine.
She chewed the corner of her lip and continued staring at me with that mask in place, before she nodded. That was all I needed. I was ready and pumped to kick ass in this game.
Second quarter started with us up 7–3.
My lungs burned harder than usual. Nothing I hadn’t felt before, but I logged it. Back of my head. Quiet note.
Jordan threw a towel at me between series. “You got the edge on 29. You see it?”
“Yeah.”
“Then hit it.”
Noah pointed at the tablet in his lap. “You’re bouncing too wide.”
“I’m reading the safety.”
“Read the end too.”
“Got it.”
Back on the field. Booth called a stretch play left. I motioned pre-snap. Quinn adjusted. It became a trap. I hit the hole low and fast, spun out of the first hit, dropped my shoulder, and picked up another first down.
The crowd gave it up again. I didn’t celebrate. Just handed the ball to the ref and got back in the huddle. My body was keeping up, and sure, my chest ached a bit, but it was the adrenaline. I wanted to win.
Next play was a pass. I stayed in for protection, picked up a blitzing linebacker, and felt the jolt up my arm as we collided. It rattled my shoulder, but I held. Quinn got the throw off. Incomplete, but safe.
Time-out. 2:13 left in the half.
We regrouped on the sideline. Booth leaned in. “Next series, you’re back in for the two-minute.”
“Copy.”
William handed me a bottle of water. “Heart rate?”
“High,” I said. “But not spike high.”
He nodded, didn’t ask more.
I breathed slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.
I was still in this. I was so fucking proud of myself. I was having a hell of a first half, like my body knew this was my purpose. And to know Rachel was there…it felt good.
We started the third quarter on offense. Still up by three.
Coach Booth kept the tempo tight—short huddle, fast formations, two-step reads. I was back in, flanked right, reading the linebacker on every snap. The first play was clean. Inside zone. I got five. It should’ve been seven, but I hesitated for half a step.
I felt it then. My chest tightened in a way that wasn’t sharp but wrong. Like I hadn’t recovered enough from the last episode. It was the heat. Or adrenaline. Or the fact I hadn’t played a full half in weeks.
Second play, I lined up again. Took the ball. Cut left. Spun. Got slammed by the safety. I landed hard, not bad enough to flag. But when I stood, the air in my lungs didn’t feel full.
I walked back to the huddle. Slow. Not slow enough for someone to notice. But enough for me to notice.
Jordan slapped my helmet. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t believe me. But he nodded and turned to Quinn.
Third and short. Booth called a fake inside, motion toss. I sold the block, released wide. The ball hit my hands. I turned upfield. Five yards. Seven. The crowd roared.
I smiled through it, but my vision blurred for a second. Then it was back. Fuck, there wasn’t much game left, and 29 was shit-talking me so much I wanted to show him.
Back on the sideline, I grabbed my water and sat down. My heart was still racing. William came over.
“Rate?”
I nodded. “Up.”
He glanced at the monitor clipped to my chest pad. “You need to sit a bit.”
“I’m fine. Promise, Doc. Just ran hard. That motherfucker is coming for me.” I pointed to Jarrett Jay, the nastiest dude in the league who made it his mission to come after me. I had no idea why, but I needed to beat him.
William hesitated, then nodded. “If the heart rate doesn’t come down after this play, you’re out. You got me?”
I nodded, annoyed he didn’t understand the pressure and severity of this game.
Sloane stepped in a moment later, crouching in front of me with her wide eyes and perfect lips. Her tablet was still in her hand, but she wasn’t reading it. She looked at me—really looked—and I hated that her face broke.
“Talk to me,” she said quietly. “Something’s not right.”
“I feel a little off but okay enough to continue.”
“Your recovery time’s slipping. You’re redder than you were in the second quarter. And William logged a higher spike than you’ve had in two weeks.”
“Let me finish the game.” I stood, sweating pouring down my face. “I’m good to finish the game, Doctor Mercer.”
She held my gaze for a second longer than I could stand. Then she nodded once, but I could see the fracture in her expression.
“One more drive,” she said. “If your numbers don’t hold, you sit. Agreed?”
I nodded. William said the same thing, but they both knew I was lying.
I didn’t lie because I wanted to. I lied because I needed to finish this game.
I couldn’t be the guy who made it and then quit.
I didn’t want to be seen as a failure or weak or the guy who they couldn’t count on.
My sister was in the suite...Jarrett was after me…
we had to win. I had something to prove, not only to myself but to others who doubted me, the ones who thought me a liability.
I went back in the next run. Booth didn’t question it. Quinn didn’t either.
We drove fast. Three passes. Two runs. The defense looked winded, but Jay wasn’t. He was still keyed in—tight coverage, closing space like he had something to prove.
Then came the play.
Second and five. Ball on the 37. Booth called a zone read. I shifted left of Quinn. We snapped fast—faster than the last set. I took the handoff, planted, and cut inside.
Jay saw it.
He broke off the edge and closed the gap fast. I hit the hole low and drove forward, lowering my shoulder to protect the ball. He hit me high. Right under the chin strap. Clean but hard. I stayed upright and powered through it.
Ten yards.
I didn’t go down. I kept pushing, arms tight around the ball.
But the light shifted.
Everything slowed. My legs were moving, but the ground felt soft beneath my cleats. My chest squeezed—no sharp pain, just pressure. Weight. I blinked hard, but my vision narrowed anyway. My arms felt cold. Not weak. Cold.
I heard yelling. Not names. Just voices.
Three more steps.
I tried to plant. My foot slid. Not from contact—from something else.
Then I wasn’t upright anymore.
I didn’t feel the turf.
I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew it was bad. My gut twisted, my lungs heaved…then everything went dark.