“I need to be with him,” I said again. Quieter this time. “Please.”
William hesitated. He looked at Ivy. She gave a slight nod.
He stepped back without another word.
I climbed into the back, took Oliver’s hand, and didn’t let go.
I didn’t care what they knew now. I didn’t care who saw.
The door shut.
And the truth came with it.
“Please, Oliver. Please. Stay with me,” I said, holding onto his hand as a tear slipped down my face. The man I loved was unconscious on a backboard, his pulse fast and slightly irregular, his skin damper than it should be, pale and still unresponsive.
I knew what came next. The lights and sirens. The chaos about to explode in the emergency room. The testing and all the questions I didn’t want to answer. Waiting for the fallout, likely ending with me resigning.
But none of that mattered. I wanted him to wake up. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to stop shaking.
The sirens didn’t start right away.
The back doors slammed shut. The world narrowed to the cold metal interior, the sharp chemical smell, and the sound ofthe belt pulled tight across Oliver’s chest. He still hadn’t spoken. Still hadn’t opened his eyes. They started an IV.
The paramedic nearest the monitors adjusted a dial, clipped another wire to his chest, avoiding the AED pads we applied on the field, and reached for the BP cuff. “120 over 94,” he called out. “Still tachycardic. 172.”
I sat pressed against the wall, holding Oliver’s hand under the buckles. His skin was damp but cooler now. His pulse trembled beneath my fingers.
“Running the ECG,” the second medic said. “Sloane, right?”
I nodded, barely able to swallow.
“You said he has a known arrhythmia?”
“Yes.” My voice cracked. “Paroxysmal SVT. Confirmed last week. Recent meds started. Metoprolol 25mg daily. No ablation scheduled.”
He didn’t react beyond a nod. He focused on the leads, fast but practiced. “Breathing’s shallow but consistent. Pupils sluggish. No signs of seizure. No visible trauma.”
I wanted to scream. He was standing there two minutes ago. Talking. Running. Laughing. And now he was still.
The machine beeped again. The rhythm flashed on the screen above Oliver’s shoulder. I recognized it instantly.
Narrow QRS. No P wave. Regular-fast rate. 168 BPM.
SVT.
“Confirmed arrhythmia,” the EMT said, voice low. “Might start resolving on its own.”
His fingers pressed against Oliver’s neck. “Still with us,” he said, but his tone didn’t feel reassuring.
I leaned closer. “Oliver, it’s me,” I whispered, trying to steady my voice. “You’re okay. We’re almost there.”
He didn’t respond. His lips twitched, barely. His chest lifted with another shallow breath.
I didn’t realize I was crying until a drop landed on my knuckle.
“BP dropping a little,” the paramedic muttered. “Prep a saline push. Let’s keep him stable.”
One of them moved fast, clicking open a drawer and snapping the IV tubing with calm precision. The other attached the bag to the pole above his head.
