Oliver walked in, shut the door, and leaned against it. He didn’t make any moves to come closer or sit down. He stood there, eyes heavy and angry, jaw tight and posture rigid. “You fucking knew?”
“Oliver—”
“Don’t Oliver me, please, Sloane.” He pushed off the door and paced in front of my desk. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“It wasn’t official until this morning, that I promise you.” My pulse raced at the intrusion of what-ifs.What if he doesn’t forgive me for this? What if he breaks up with me? What if this is it?
Do your job. I stared at the degrees on the wall, and while I hated it, I shoved my feelings down deep into my chest even though he was hurting me too. “Oliver, please sit and talk to me. You got a major diagnosis, and that has to have you feeling rattled.”
“Rattled? I am fucking rattled. I have a real heart condition. This isn’t some one-off episode. I might not play again. Of course I’m rattled.”
“Can you stand there and honestly tell me this is a surprise to you? Because if you can, then let’s talk about why, but be honest with me. Is this a surprise?”
That did it.
Oliver’s shoulders slumped, and he plopped into the chair, his sad, anguished gaze meeting mine. It was like the fight left him. “No. It’s not a surprise.”
“Here’s what I think, and I’ll give you the choice. You’re taking out your grief on me. You’re grieving a life you thought you had, and that’s hard. So, option one, we can hash this out as a couple. Because I’m always on your team, Oliver. Or you can let me do my job, and we talk out the best options for you because I’m damn good at this. And I’ll be honest, my personal thoughts don’t align with my professional on this, so I’ll follow your lead.”
He stared at me for a few seconds before he ran a hand over his face. “Can we get out of here?”
32
OLIVER
The hall outside Sloane’s office felt smaller than before. I closed the door behind us and didn’t say anything for the first twenty steps. My heart was still hammering. Not dangerously fast but too hard in my chest.
She didn’t try to speak either.
We reached the back lot, quiet except for the dull roar of traffic from the freeway two blocks over. The sun sat low. The kind of light I usually liked—calm, neutral. But now, it felt heavy. She waited at the passenger door while I unlocked it. Her hand brushed mine when I opened it. I didn’t move away.
I shouldn’t have wanted that comfort. I wanted space. I wanted silence. I wanted her to ask me if I was okay so I could say I wasn’t. But she didn’t ask, and I didn’t say it.
The drive took ten minutes. We didn’t play music. We didn’t talk. She stared out the window. I kept both hands on the wheel even though they didn’t feel steady. The silence didn’t feel like punishment. But it didn’t feel like peace either.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on her face when Mac said the words out loud. SVT. Six to eight weeks if I went under.Permanent restriction if I didn’t. And Sloane already knew it before I walked into that room.
I tried not to hate her for it.
But I did hate something. I hated that my sister thought I was thriving, that the crowd cheered last weekend like I was unstoppable, and that I had convinced myself that if I played well enough, nothing could touch me.
I hated that I had let myself believe I was finally okay. I hated that the life I wanted wasn’t possible.
The Cubs bar was nearly empty when we walked in. A couple of old regulars sat near the back, arguing quietly over stats and pitching calls. A new bartender looked up, gave us a nod. I couldn’t tell if he recognized us from a game or remembered we’d been here before.
Sloane kept her head down as we walked to the booth by the window. She slid in first. I sat across from her. My hands pressed flat against the table as I tried to feel something solid.
We didn’t touch. We didn’t reach for the menus.
“I wanted to come here. It’s our safe space. We’re not at work, and we’re not at our places. This is neutral ground. Figured we could talk here.”
“Sure, yeah.” She swallowed, her brown eyes filled with worry. “How are…what are you thinking right now?”
“I wish you told me sooner.”
She didn’t answer right away. When she looked at me, her expression was tired, sad. “I never intended or wanted to hurt you. Please know, while we work through this together, that never was the goal.”
“You didn’t hurt me. The diagnosis did.” That was the lie I needed to tell.
