Chapter 37 Sloane
SLOANE
Ididn’t sleep much at the hospital, and my bones were tired.
Even after Oliver’s discharge went smoothly, even after we got him home and into his bed with instructions printed and meds sorted, my body wouldn’t stop buzzing.
I lay in the armchair across the room, heart racing every time he shifted, every time he made a sound.
He was cleared, and he’d meet with William and Booth, along with his agent, to come up with a surgery plan.
He needed an ablation. No room for debate.
He tried the meds as requested and failed. This was the next step.
But he needed to be stable and feel ready for it.
I kept reminding myself he was safe, but this overwhelming feeling deep in my chest caused a physical pang behind my heart.
I lay there, curled sideways in the armchair, tracking Oliver’s respiratory pattern in the dark.
My body was tense, wired, unable to reset.
The logical part of my brain kept reciting facts: normal telemetry, successful discharge, oxygen saturation in range.
But the rest of me—the part that had pressed my head to his shoulder in the back of an ambulance—wouldn’t believe it.
Because this wasn’t a patient. This wasn’t just a file.
This was Oliver. My Oliver.
And something in me still didn’t feel right.
I needed to reset my baseline. Hydrate. Sleep. Meditate. Do the things I told my athletes to do. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the field. The moment his legs gave out. The moment his body stopped catching itself.
I counted his breaths again. Eighteen per minute. Still within range. I pressed my hands flat to my thighs and breathed in slowly. Counted to four. Held for four. Released on six. It didn’t help much.
My nervous system had logged the trauma. I’d metabolize it eventually but not yet. Not until he was further out. Not until the surgery was scheduled and the team knew we were done hiding.
Not until I knew the fallout was survivable. Until then, I’d fake a smile, because I did not want Oliver worrying about me at all. I needed to be his rock, and I would be.
I started coffee the second we got home, because my head ached from lack of sleep. I wouldn’t nap though, not with an email or text that should arrive soon. Ivy gave me a quick text early that said: They’ll summon you in today, be ready.
It made my throat ache with worry. Summoning me.
I’d be fired on the spot, and they’d need to do an investigation, see if any of my findings were biased or faked.
I followed everything to a tee, I did, and I had no regrets or red flags.
I started a relationship with a player when it was off-limits from the start.
It broke my code of ethics. I could lose my license.
Oliver was half-reclined on the couch, blanket draped over his legs, eyes heavy.
He looked so peaceful, and a surge of love flowed through me.
I was so damn glad he was okay and still with me.
His arm rested across my lap, fingers absently tracing the inside of my wrist. The quiet between us wasn’t uncomfortable; it was the good kind, the kind you earned.
The knock startled both of us. Slow, deliberate.
He frowned. “That’s not the guys. They’d barge in here.”
Before I could stand, he shifted forward, wincing a little as he got to his feet. I followed him to the door, hovering close in case he swayed. He didn’t—but his shoulders stiffened when he opened it.
Two older folks who looked like him stood in the hallway.
They looked like people who’d been holding their breath. His mom’s scrubs were wrinkled, her hair pulled back in a messy twist. His dad’s hand tightened around a cup of coffee that spilled over the side. For a moment, no one spoke. Then his mom whispered, “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Ma,” he said softly, voice catching on the word. Oliver glanced at Rachel, who stood still at the counter. “Didn’t know you were coming?”
“We saw you collapse on live TV, and you couldn’t call us to let us know you were breathing.” His mom rushed in, eyes watery as she placed a hand on Oliver’s arm. “I needed to make sure you were okay, and Rachel’s texts weren’t good enough.”
“Jesus, I told you he was alive and healing.” Rachel scoffed, but there wasn’t real heat to it. “He’s fine. I’m gonna head to Sloane’s apartment to let you all talk. Lemme know when I can come back.”
Rachel patted Oliver’s shoulder and then her parents before walking out.
“Can we come in, son?”
There was a beat where I wasn’t sure what Oliver would do, and his worried gaze landed on my face, and I nodded.
That was all he needed. He jutted his head, walking toward me. “Yeah, sure.”
They moved tentatively, like crossing the threshold might break something fragile. His mom’s eyes darted around the space—medical equipment tucked in corners, prescriptions lined up on the counter—then back to her son. “You look better than everything I’ve been imagining.”
“Guess I clean up well,” he said, half a smile forming.
It fell away fast.
She stepped closer, trembling fingers lifting to touch his face but stopping short. “We thought we lost you,” she said, and her voice cracked open on the last word. “We were watching the game, and—” She broke off, pressing her hand to her mouth.
He didn’t answer, just pulled her in. The hug was slow, careful, but his body melted against hers. His dad looked away, jaw working like he was chewing gum.
When they finally sat, I busied myself clearing the coffee table, giving them space but staying close enough that Oliver could reach for me if he needed to. He did—his hand found mine on instinct.
His mom dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “We haven’t been fair to you. You were helping us, helping Rachel, and we made you feel like you had to earn our pride, and I know that now, and I hate myself for it. We don’t need that financial help anymore, and we never should’ve accepted it to begin with.”
Oliver shook his head. “I was trying to prove I was worth it. That I wasn’t just a paycheck with cleats. But I know I’m not.”
His dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You were never that. We were scared, son. Scared you’d burn out before you even got to experience life. Find love. Adventures. I didn’t know how to say that without sounding like I was ashamed of you, but I’m not. I’m so sorry.”
The air thickened.
“I don’t need you to be proud of me for playing,” Oliver said quietly. “Just… proud of me.”
His mom’s face crumpled. “We are. We are so proud of you and the man that you’ve become.”
For the first time, his father reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re the bravest man I know, Oliver. We love you, and I know we could’ve showed that more. We made mistakes, and I know things aren’t going to be perfect. But we love you and don’t care if you ever play football again.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard, because if I didn’t, I’d cry too. My own chest ached with the familiar wish that my brother had gotten a moment like this—that someone had told him he didn’t need to keep proving himself either.
Oliver’s eyes glistened. He nodded once, jaw flexing, then leaned back into the couch, his hand still gripping mine. “Thank you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “For coming. For saying that.”
His mom kissed the top of his head. “Always.”
They stayed another few minutes, chatting softly about what was next and his plan for the ablation.
They booked a hotel and wanted to stay for a week and promised they’d be back soon.
When they left, the door clicked shut with a sound that felt final—but not in a bad way. Like a chapter closing right.
Oliver exhaled, long and shaky, then slumped back, head falling against my shoulder. I let him.
“You okay?” I whispered.
He nodded, eyes closed. “Yeah. I think so. That was…damn. Hate that I’m a grown man and needed my parents to say that.”
My hand slid through his hair, the gesture automatic. His breathing slowed, syncing with mine as he rested on me. “I’m proud of you,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. “You’re starting to accept the fact people love you despite football, and that’s hard.”
“Are you Doc-ing me Mercer?” he teased, his voice soft for me.
“Yes, now be a good patient and relax.”
By late afternoon, someone else knocked twice and twisted the handle without waiting for an answer. That had to be the guys.
“Open up! What’s taking so long?”
I knew that voice. Jordan. I got up from the chair, ran a hand over Oliver’s forehead, and moved to the hallway.
Rachel returned an hour ago and didn’t ask a single question, which I think all of us appreciated.
Oliver had enough heavy shit today, so she eased tension and helped out.
She stood in the kitchen, pouring an iced tea as I warned her.
“Be prepared. Jordan is like an overgrown puppy.”
I unlocked the door and offered a shy smile as he waltzed in, not even giving me a second glance. “I brought juice, snacks, and a cactus.”
Rachel tilted her head. “A cactus?”
He shrugged with an expression that read “duh.” “It’s low-maintenance and emotionally resilient. Kind of like our man Oliver.”
“What nonsense are you talking about?” Oliver walked out of his bedroom, and my breath caught in my throat. He wore loose sweats, an old T-shirt, and his hair was messy and sleepy, but he was so beautiful. Strong. Sexy. Mine.
“Jordan insisted on the stupid plant, and I tried talking him out of it.” Noah walked in after Jordan, carrying a bunch of balloons that said HAPPY EARLY RETIREMENT.
He set the bouquet beside the couch and grinned. “We couldn’t find any ‘congrats on surviving your own heart’ balloons. This seemed like the next best option.”
“Appreciate the effort,” Oliver said dryly. “Why are there so many of you here?”
Quinn was last, carrying a gas station fountain drink and a tiara. “Because we care about you, you dipshit. Here is a tiara because you won the team’s most dramatic exit off the field of the year so far.”