“You will. I promise,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder again. “But Oliver, I can’t until everything is official. Please don’t ask this of me.”
I looked at her and tracked the worry lines on her forehead, the pulse at the base of her neck.
“Sloane.”
She didn’t look at me.
“I don’t want to be a file to you.”
Her eyes lifted then. Sharp. Sad.
“Then stop making me treat you like one.”
She walked out.
And I sat there, alone in a silent room, wondering if this was the moment I started losing everything I was trying to hold on to.
31
SLOANE
Ifelt like shit. Personally, professionally, all of it. I avoided Oliver the night before, telling him I had a headache and wanted to rest. We both knew it was a lie, but I needed the distance. And for once, even though it hurt, staying away from him was the right choice. I couldn’t lie to him, and I didn’t want to potentially change his entire career if I didn’t need to. But now the truth was here.
Paroxysmal SVT. Official. Confirmed by the cardiologist that morning with EP data and wearable telemetry and ECHO from the last forty-eight hours. No structural defects. No inflammation. Just electrical chaos.
He hadn’t seen the report yet, didn’t know the official diagnosis. I had.
I walked into the admin conference room at 9:00 sharp. Booth positioned himself near the window with his arms crossed. Mac sat at the head of the table, reading the printout from William’s final report. William was next to me, already scanning vitals on his tablet. Ivy stood against the wall, the usual upbeat attitude replaced with a somber expression.
It wasn’t every day that news changed an athlete’s life.
No one said good morning.
I sat across from Mac and placed my tablet on the table.
William started. “Confirmed SVT. Triggered in paroxysmal bursts. No sustained arrhythmia, but all four events captured on telemetry were consistent in presentation. His episode during walk-through was the most severe.”
“Is it cardiac or stress-induced?” Booth asked.
“Both,” William said. “Primary origin is electrical misfiring in the atria. No structural cause, no stimulant indicators. But stress and exertion are active triggers.”
Mac looked up from the report. “What’s the recovery window?”
William answered. “We’re recommending a two-week minimum hold from gameplay. Further testing is needed to determine if he’s a candidate for an ablation.”
“And if he doesn’t do the procedure?”
“Then he’ll need constant monitoring. Restricted training schedule. Modified performance plan. Full medical clearance required before each game, medication management for efficacy.”
Booth sighed. “So he’s flagged. Permanently.”
“Yes,” William said.
Mac leaned back in his chair, a forlorn, worried expression on his weathered face. He stared at Ivy a beat, something unsaid between them. The atmosphere was heavy, tense. “Can he play again?”
William glanced at me, one eyebrow raised.
I cleared my throat. “He can. But he won’t be the same. Not right away. Even with treatment, his conditioning will take a hit. Confidence too. He’s not going to come back next week and be himself. And if he refuses treatment, he may never stabilize under stress again.”
