“Look at you taking care of me when I should be there for you.” She sniffed, an odd combination of a laugh and a cry.
“Still haven’t promised me.” I stood, slid out of my side of the booth, and moved in next to her.
She shifted automatically, making space like she knew I was coming. I sat close, pressing my thigh against hers, and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm. Her eyes were glassy. She looked at me like she wanted to believe it could all still work.
I cupped her face gently, my thumb brushing along the edge of her cheekbone. She leaned into my touch without hesitation. I bent forward until our foreheads touched.
“Sloane,” I whispered. “I love you. You said you’ve never felt this way about anyone. Well, neither have I.”
She reached for my wrist, fingers wrapping around it tight.
“You and I are in this,” I said. “It’s gonna be weird. It’s gonna be complicated. But it’s you and me.”
I kissed her forehead, then the spot above her ear. She exhaled through her nose, shaky and soft, and turned her face toward mine.
I didn’t rush the kiss. I didn’t try to take more than she gave. I pressed my lips to hers, slow and sure, and stayed there until I felt her relax.
When I pulled back, I kept my hand on her jaw.
“Okay?” I said.
She nodded once. “Okay.”
And for the first time since the diagnosis, I believed we might find our way through this.
33
SLOANE
Two weeks passed, but it felt like years.
Oliver didn’t play. He suited up. He went through warm-ups. But his helmet never left the sideline, and his cleats never crossed the sidelines after kickoff. He stayed ready. Focused. Calm on the outside. I knew better. I knew what it cost him to stand there with his arms crossed while someone else took his spot. I knew because every time I looked up from the medical tablet, he was already looking at me.
He followed the protocol without argument. No pushing, no skipped readings, no late arrivals. His heart rate stayed within expected range. No new spikes. No episodes. William kept detailed notes, cross-referencing telemetry with his blood pressure and sleep logs. The data was clean. His body was cooperating—for now. And still, every time I saw him on the screen, I tracked his breathing without meaning to.
He made the call early. Told Mac and Booth in private that he’d finish the season on medication and get the ablation in the offseason if warranted. The staff respected his choice, no one quite agreeing or disagreeing because we all knew the reality. Hecould sit out the rest of the season and could get replaced. That was life, and Oliver made his choice.
We won the first game without him. Lost the second in overtime. He didn't speak much on the flight home or in the locker room. But he showed up for recovery, for meetings, for the guys. He stayed in it. Hung out a lot of Noah. I didn’t know if that made it better or worse. Watching him pour himself into the routine like he wasn’t unraveling underneath.
I worked both games. Sat through every sideline meeting. Ran hydration tracking and post-game data for every player. Ivy watched me more than usual but never said anything. William kept his updates clinical. I told myself I was holding the line. I reminded myself that no one knew. And yet, every time Oliver walked past me without speaking, it felt like a fracture deepening beneath the surface.
This man said he loved me. No one… no one besides family had ever said they loved me. I was too focused, too serious, too uptight. To receive Oliver’s affection was a gift, and I hadn’t said it back, mainly out of fear, but I felt it in every conversation we had.
While we remained professional at work, we spent every night together. We’d leave work casually, where he’d meet me in my office and he’d walk me to my car, then we’d meet up at either one of our places. We’d watch shows, talk about life goals like having kids and moving into a house with a huge backyard, and he even got to meet my brother through FaceTime.
Things were… good.
For once, there was no dread sitting under my skin, no unread reports waiting to ruin my day. Oliver was cleared to return to the game in four days. His numbers held steady. His stress index had actually dropped.
Then I looked up and saw him standing in my doorway.
“Hey,” Oliver said, leaning against the frame with a smirk I knew far too well. His hair fell over his forehead, and his damn dimples popped enough to signal trouble. Those dimples were dangerous, and he knew it.
I raised a brow. “Hi, Oliver.”
I crossed one leg over the other and set my tablet down on the desk. “I don’t believe we have a session scheduled, do we?”
He chuckled and pushed off the door, shutting it behind him with one hand. The soft click of the lock echoed a little too loud. “No one’s here. We had off today. Yet where does my girlfriend spend all her time?”
