That landed. Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t speak. The wall went up between us, and it hurt in a way I wasn’t ready for. She’d never kept anything from me. Not in college, not when I first joined this team.
We’d been friends for years. She’d been in my corner longer than anyone in this building. Now she was on the other side.
“Are you for real? Not gonna fucking tell me a thing?”
She exhaled through her nose, shifting her stance. “You need to show up at 12. You damn well know you’re not healthy, and we need tests to confirm what’s next. Don’t look at me like I’m betraying you, Oliver. This shit is serious, and I’m done covering for you, pretending like you can handle everything. You can’t.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I stood there, trying to hold my reaction in. My pulse felt wrong again, too fast and too shallow, but I couldn’t tell if it was my body or just the shame climbing higher in my chest. The feelings of betrayal and guilt twisted and weaved into each other, and I wasn’t sure what was what. I couldn’t believe my oldest friend betrayed me, while at the same time, I knew I’d put her through hell.
She probably lied for me, covered for me countless times and I accepted it. I never thought about what it costher.
I swallowed back the frustration, even though it scraped against my throat. I opened my mouth to argue, but I didn’t know what I was trying to say. That I deserved the truth? That I could handle it?
She stepped aside and gestured toward the table inside recovery. “Vitals first. Then hydration. After that, you sit. And I mean it, Oli. You sit your ass down and rest until 12.”
No musicfrom the training room. No chatter from rookies messing with the rehab gear. Just the low buzz of the lights and the sound of my sneakers against the tile. Jordan and Noah had reached out numerous times, but I left them on read. The woman I loved was about to tell me I couldn’t play football ever again.
My career would be over. My parents would be so disappointed. I’d lose the team, the guys who were my closest friends. And Sloane… god, what could I even offer her if I was some has-been?
I showed up at 11:55.
William met me at the check-in tablet near the back hallway. He didn’t say much—handed me a bottle of water and gestured toward the smaller testing room off the main diagnostics bay. It was windowless, lit by a single overhead panel, and had the faint chemical smell of fresh wipes on plastic equipment. What if this was the last time I did this here? What if they walked me out after, calling security in here because they were terrified I’d react like Hayes? What if my life was over?
“Vitals look consistent,” he said as I sat. “We’re monitoring for shifts. Keep the water nearby.”
I nodded.
He didn’t make eye contact when he left.
Sloane walked in a minute later, already holding a clipboard. She was in black joggers and a red team shirt, a jacket over it. Her hair was pulled back in a tight knot. No hoodie. No smiles.
Once she approached me, her footsteps faltered, and she reached out to squeeze my shoulder. It was quick and the only display of warmth before she started.
She didn’t look at me when she spoke. “You’ll start with ImPACT baseline. Then we’ll run verbal recall and sequencing.”
“Good afternoon to you too, Doctor Mercer,” I said, not able to hide the annoyance in my voice. I studied her, worried about the line between her eyebrows and the tightness to her jaw.
Her lips thinned. “Let’s keep this clinical, James.”
James? Shit. I raised my hands slightly, fear grinding down my spine. This couldn’t be good. “You got it. Clinical.”
She pulled the chair across from me and opened the laptop on the desk. The screen loaded a timed assessment—basic color-matching, symbol recognition, delayed recall, and tracking tasks.
I’d done this test before. It was usually boring, sometimes frustrating, but never hard. Today, I couldn’t lock in. The colors blurred halfway through the second section. My finger twitched on the response pad. I missed two obvious matches and cursed under my breath.
Sloane didn’t flinch. “Keep going.”
I moved slower on the next section—number sequencing. It asked me to repeat strings of digits, forward and backward. The five-digit sequence looped fine. But the six? I blinked. Paused. Got it wrong.
“Retry,” she said, voice neutral.
I did. Same error.
“Would you say you slept last night?” she asked, no evidence of us in her voice.
“Yes, Sloane, I slept last night.”
“Mm.”
