Everything was happening too fast and too slow.
I felt like I was outside my body. I’d been in ambulances before. I’d been on the sidelines of worse. But this wasn’t someone else’s chart. This wasn’t another case file or patient history.
This was Oliver. The man I loved. The man I let walk onto that field.
“Sloane,” the paramedic said gently. “Can you talk to him for me? Sometimes hearing a familiar voice helps.”
I nodded, choking on air. I leaned forward and brushed the sweat-damp hair from his forehead.
“Hey,” I whispered, soft and desperate. “It’s me. I’m right here. You’re not alone, Oliver. You’re safe. We’re on the way. Just stay with me, okay? Breathe.”
His hand twitched under mine.
The paramedic looked at me. “We’re three minutes out.”
I nodded again, unable to speak. I pressed my forehead to his shoulder for one second—just one—and wished, bartered, prayed, and hoped he’d be okay. God, he’d just entered my life, and it felt like he was meant to be there.
The ambulance doors opened, and a wave of antiseptic-charged air hit me. I felt every vibration of the gurney rolling onto the hospital floor. It shifted colors under the bright lights—white walls, green scrubs, red EXIT signs guiding the chaos. Crowd noise, crowd action, everything outside was gone. Only urgency.
I didn’t want to let go of Oliver’s hand. I followed the team through the emergency bay, where eventually nurses and doctors separated us to fully assess him. They moved with purpose—checking his airway, inserting another IV. I stood behind them, chest constricted. Their voices kept it clinical, but my blood ran with fear. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too urgent. I wasn’t built for this.
I stood outside the trauma bay doors, arms wrapped around my torso, Oliver’s name still echoing in my head. A nurse guided me back toward the consult alcove, past double doors I wasn’t authorized to follow through. She offered me water. I took it, but my hands shook too badly to lift the cup.
They’d stripped his jersey. Removed his pads. He was in the trauma suite now, monitored by cardiology and emergency medicine. The nurse gave the update he was stable and continuing to be monitored. Waiting on the cardiology consult.
I couldn’t see him yet.
I’d seen players hit, concussed. I’d walked into ERs before—but never like this. Never with a heartbeat I’d memorized fading under my hands.
The charge nurse checked my ID twice, logged it in the system, and gave me a sterile badge. “You’re listed as his emergency contact and have been designated to receive information about his care.”
Something cracked inside me.
He listed me.
Not the team rep. Not Mac. Not Booth. Me.
Air punched out of my lungs like I’d been hit. I pressed the heel of my hand against my sternum, like I could keep everything from spilling out. My throat burned. My vision blurred. The badge crinkled in my grip as I curled my fingers around it until the edge cut into my palm.
I sat down on the hard bench against the wall, elbows on my knees, the sterile white light overhead blinding. I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t get my breath to even out.
I’d failed him.
The thought landed like a stone in my chest. I let him play. I told him he was fine. If he couldn’t play again—or worse—I didn’t know how I was supposed to live with that.
The elevator dinged behind me. I didn’t look up. I didn’t trust what would come out of me if I did.
“Sloane.” Ivy’s voice was calm, but I could hear the sprint in her breath. She crouched in front of me, hands on my knees. “He’s stable. William called me. They’re running a full cardiac panel and placing him under observation for at least twenty-four hours.”
I nodded once. My throat burned.
“He’s alive,” she said. “You kept him alive.”
“I let him play.”
“We let him play. We trusted him.” Ivy didn’t blink, her eyes boring into me. “This isn’t on you alone. It’s on all of us. But he’s doing okay. He’s stabilizing.”
Before I could answer, a security officer stepped into the hallway. He scanned the list in his hand, then looked at me. “Sloane Mercer?”
