“We saw you collapse on live TV, and you couldn’t call us to let us know you were breathing.” His mom rushed in, eyes watery as she placed a hand on Oliver’s arm. “I needed to make sure you were okay, and Rachel’s texts weren’t good enough.”
“Jesus, I told you he was alive and healing.” Rachel scoffed, but there wasn’t real heat to it. “He’s fine. I’m gonna head to Sloane’s apartment to let you all talk. Lemme know when I can come back.”
Rachel patted Oliver’s shoulder and then her parents before walking out.
“Can we come in, son?”
There was a beat where I wasn’t sure what Oliver would do, and his worried gaze landed on my face, and I nodded.
That was all he needed. He jutted his head, walking toward me. “Yeah, sure.”
They moved tentatively, like crossing the threshold might break something fragile. His mom’s eyes darted around the space—medical equipment tucked in corners, prescriptions lined up on the counter—then back to her son. “You look better than everything I’ve been imagining.”
“Guess I clean up well,” he said, half a smile forming.
It fell away fast.
She stepped closer, trembling fingers lifting to touch his face but stopping short. “We thought we lost you,” she said, and her voice cracked open on the last word. “We were watching the game, and—” She broke off, pressing her hand to her mouth.
He didn’t answer, just pulled her in. The hug was slow, careful, but his body melted against hers. His dad looked away, jaw working like he was chewing gum.
When they finally sat, I busied myself clearing the coffee table, giving them space but staying close enough that Oliver could reach for me if he needed to. He did—his hand found mine on instinct.
His mom dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “We haven’t been fair to you. You were helping us, helping Rachel, and we made you feel like you had to earn our pride, and I know that now, and I hate myself for it. We don’t need that financial help anymore, and we never should’ve accepted it to begin with.”
Oliver shook his head. “I was trying to prove I was worth it. That I wasn’t just a paycheck with cleats. But I know I’m not.”
His dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You were never that. We were scared, son. Scared you’d burn out before you even got to experience life. Find love. Adventures. I didn’t know how to say that without sounding like I was ashamed of you, but I’m not. I’m so sorry.”
The air thickened.
“I don’t need you to be proud of me for playing,” Oliver said quietly. “Just… proud of me.”
His mom’s face crumpled. “We are. We are so proud of you and the man that you’ve become.”
For the first time, his father reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re the bravest man I know, Oliver. We love you, and I know we could’ve showed that more. We made mistakes,and I know things aren’t going to be perfect. But we love you and don’t care if you ever play football again.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard, because if I didn’t, I’d cry too. My own chest ached with the familiar wish that my brother had gotten a moment like this—that someone had told him he didn’t need to keep proving himself either.
Oliver’s eyes glistened. He nodded once, jaw flexing, then leaned back into the couch, his hand still gripping mine. “Thank you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “For coming. For saying that.”
His mom kissed the top of his head. “Always.”
They stayed another few minutes, chatting softly about what was next and his plan for the ablation. They booked a hotel and wanted to stay for a week and promised they’d be back soon. When they left, the door clicked shut with a sound that felt final—but not in a bad way. Like a chapter closing right.
Oliver exhaled, long and shaky, then slumped back, head falling against my shoulder. I let him.
“You okay?” I whispered.
He nodded, eyes closed. “Yeah. I think so. That was…damn. Hate that I’m a grown man and needed my parents to say that.”
My hand slid through his hair, the gesture automatic. His breathing slowed, syncing with mine as he rested on me. “I’m proud of you,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. “You’re starting to accept the fact people love you despite football, and that’s hard.”
“Are you Doc-ing me Mercer?” he teased, his voice soft for me.
“Yes, now be a good patient and relax.”
By late afternoon, someone else knocked twice and twisted the handle without waiting for an answer. Thathadto be the guys.
