It wasn’t new information. But hearing it like this, stated so clearly, made it real in a different way. I didn’t want to be here another night. I didn’t want surgery. Not yet… I wanted more time as a football player.
Gail moved toward the door. “If anything changes—pain, dizziness, pressure—press the call button. We’ll be in immediately. Otherwise, I’ll be back in an hour.”
I nodded as she exited, leaving Sloane and me together again. “Well, there we go. Here at least until tomorrow.”
“Don’t sound so melancholy, I’ll be here with you.” She squeezed my foot over the blanket, a soft smile on her face.
“What’s that cute smile for, honey?”
She pointed to the chair next to me. “I’m so grateful that I get to have a shitty night’s sleep in that horrible armchair. Because it means you’re okay and doing well.” She chewed her lip and stared at me. “Do you want me to run to your place and get you clothes, phone, anything?”
“Nah, Rachel or one of the guys can do that. You’re with me, Sloane. It’s you and me.”
I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, what Mac and Booth would say, but there was comfort knowing her and I were in this together. She chosemeover her career, something she swore she would never do, and despite the physical pain my body was in, her actions lit me up. I finally had someone who wanted me, broken and everything, and I refused to let anything happen to her career, even if that meant giving up mine.
37
SLOANE
Ididn’t sleep much at the hospital, and my bones were tired.
Even after Oliver’s discharge went smoothly, even after we got him home and into his bed with instructions printed and meds sorted, my body wouldn’t stop buzzing. I lay in the armchair across the room, heart racing every time he shifted, every time he made a sound. He was cleared, and he’d meet with William and Booth, along with his agent, to come up with a surgery plan. He needed an ablation. No room for debate. He tried the meds as requested and failed. This was the next step.
But he needed to be stable and feel ready for it.
I kept reminding myself he was safe, but this overwhelming feeling deep in my chest caused a physical pang behind my heart. I lay there, curled sideways in the armchair, tracking Oliver’s respiratory pattern in the dark. My body was tense, wired, unable to reset. The logical part of my brain kept reciting facts: normal telemetry, successful discharge, oxygen saturation in range. But the rest of me—the part that had pressed my head to his shoulder in the back of an ambulance—wouldn’t believe it.
Because this wasn’t a patient. This wasn’t just a file.
This was Oliver.My Oliver.
And something in me still didn’t feel right.
I needed to reset my baseline. Hydrate. Sleep. Meditate. Do the things I told my athletes to do. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the field. The moment his legs gave out. The moment his body stopped catching itself.
I counted his breaths again. Eighteen per minute. Still within range. I pressed my hands flat to my thighs and breathed in slowly. Counted to four. Held for four. Released on six. It didn’t help much.
My nervous system had logged the trauma. I’d metabolize it eventually but not yet. Not until he was further out. Not until the surgery was scheduled and the team knew we were done hiding.
Not until I knew the fallout was survivable. Until then, I’d fake a smile, because I did not want Oliver worrying about me at all. I needed to be his rock, and I would be.
I started coffee the second we got home, because my head ached from lack of sleep. I wouldn’t nap though, not with an email or text that should arrive soon. Ivy gave me a quick text early that said:They’ll summon you in today, be ready.
It made my throat ache with worry. Summoning me. I’d be fired on the spot, and they’d need to do an investigation, see if any of my findings were biased or faked. I followed everything to a tee, I did, and I had no regrets or red flags. I started a relationship with a player when it was off-limits from the start. It broke my code of ethics. I could lose my license.
Oliver was half-reclined on the couch, blanket draped over his legs, eyes heavy. He looked so peaceful, and a surge of love flowed through me. I was so damn glad he was okay and still with me. His arm rested across my lap, fingers absently tracing the inside of my wrist. The quiet between us wasn’t uncomfortable; it was the good kind, the kind you earned.
The knock startled both of us. Slow, deliberate.
He frowned. “That’s not the guys. They’d barge in here.”
Before I could stand, he shifted forward, wincing a little as he got to his feet. I followed him to the door, hovering close in case he swayed. He didn’t—but his shoulders stiffened when he opened it.
Two older folks who looked like him stood in the hallway.
They looked like people who’d been holding their breath. His mom’s scrubs were wrinkled, her hair pulled back in a messy twist. His dad’s hand tightened around a cup of coffee that spilled over the side. For a moment, no one spoke. Then his mom whispered, “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Ma,” he said softly, voice catching on the word. Oliver glanced at Rachel, who stood still at the counter. “Didn’t know you were coming?”
