“High praise,” I said, standing with him.
He followed, shaking out his arms like he was about to head into drills. “Thanks for not asking me to do breathwork or name my feelings in front of a candle.”
“I left my candles at home,” I said. “But next time, I might bring one labeled‘you’re allowed to not be okay.’”
Jordan chuckled. “Yeah, I’m good on that. But seriously, thank you. For letting me… be.”
“That’s the job,” I said. “Resilience starts where the cleanup doesn’t, and if you do feel like you’re gonna freak out, then freak out. Feel it. Channel it onto the field.”
He reached for his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll text you when I land, Doc. Might give you a call if I have a question.”
“Please do.” I handed him my card, and he smiled at it.
As he turned to walk away, he paused. “Hey, Mercer?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll be back again. Don’t hold my spot with anyone else, alright?”
I smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I watched him walk away, my heart soaring. This was why I did what I did. Players like him, players who I could help before they turned into my brother. My brother got hurt after banking his entire future on football, then became addicted to pain meds during his recovery. He didn’t get the help he needed, the mental help, so he turned to drugs, and my parents blamed me for not helping him. If I wasa mental health doctor,how could I not help the person I grew up with?
I swallowed the guilt, the always-present grief that lingered from my torn family. I straightened my shoulders, planning to document my notes from this conversation with Jordan when I wanted to get a coffee from the break room.
I wasn’t sleeping well.
The tea helped most mornings—ritual over remedy—but today, it didn’t cut it. I needed something stronger. My head throbbed with the kind of ache that came from clenching your jaw for too many days in a row. I earned my opportunity here from grit and hard work, and I was willing to work through the uncertainty, but it was exhausting.
As I neared the common area, the sound of voices drifted around the corner.
Male. Familiar. My name in the middle of it.
“She’s got the credentials, sure,” William said, his tone flat, dismissive, the clink of his cup lid snapping into place. “But this isn’t a psych seminar. These guys don’t need damn breathing exercises or feeling journals. They need backbone and to grow the fuck up. I can’t stand this new age shit about emotions. God, what is this place turning into?”
My lungs stilled, and something low in my gut twisted.
“I still don’t get the hire,” Mickerson added. His voice carried all that usual, practiced condescension—like everything he said came with a smug grin you couldn’t wipe off. “We’ve got Ivy. We’ve got Benson. What does Sloane bring that couldn’t be outsourced to a wellness app?”
My stomach flipped, a tight rush of heat rising up the back of my neck. The same kind of heat that used to burn under my collar during med school rotations, when I’d walk into a room full of men who wouldn’t look me in the eye—but never missed a chance to comment on my clothes or the way I “took things too seriously.” The kind of heat that left you sweating under your skin while you smiled through it.
Then William laughed, a deeply rude and unpleasant sound.
“Ownership wanted a feel-good headline. First full-time mental health lead in franchise history. Looks great on paper, makes for a great opening line in the media kit. But let’s behonest—she’s ridiculous. What kind of results can she actually deliver? She’ll be gone before Thanksgiving. She has to be.”
The air turned sharp, like my body was trying to armor itself without my permission.
I stood frozen, one hand still gripping my tablet, fingers going numb. My weight shifted automatically—one foot angled toward the exit, the other refusing to move. I should’ve walked away. I should’ve let their comments roll off my back like I always did. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I needed to know how deep the knife went. How far they were willing to twist it.
My vision blurred, not from tears but from pressure. Like every muscle in my face was trying to hold steady while the blood in my ears pounded louder than their voices.
My throat felt raw. Like I’d swallowed something too sharp and it got stuck mid-chest. This wasn’t a new or unfamiliar feeling. I’d heard things like this before, but what they said mirrored my own family’s harsh words.
What difference can you make? You failed your brother. You couldn’t help him, so why would you think you could help anyone?
What stung the most wasn’t the surprise. I knew how men like William and Mickerson thought. I’d spent years working beside them, earning twice the credibility for half the respect. But hearing ithere, after Jordan—after one of the clearest moments I’d had in weeks, where my workmattered—that was what gutted me.
I blinked hard, jaw locked so tight it ached, and slowly turned back down the hall.
