“Okay, fine.” She exhaled, but she didn’t look away. “Maybe I didn’t want to be alone with the report. Maybe I didn’t want to guess at what you were feeling. And maybe I… didn’t hate the idea of talking to you.”
I didn’t say anything for a second. I let the silence settle, the good kind this time. The kind that didn’t demand a response.
Then I leaned in a little. “I like talking to you too, Doc.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling again, all soft and slightly tired. “I should go.”
“Probably,” I said, but I didn’t move and neither did she.
We sat like that for a moment. Like if either of us blinked too long, the spell would break. Then she slid off the stool and grabbed her tablet. “Thanks for the toast.”
“Thanks for the company.”
She made it to the door before turning back. “You better be honest with me tomorrow.”
I held her gaze. “I’ll try.”
She gave me a look that said she knew that was the best I could give her. Then she left, and I stood in my kitchen, smelling cinnamon and trying not to think about how good her laugh sounded when it was just for me.
7
SLOANE
Ihit send on the report at 7:00 a.m. The moment the document uploaded and the confirmation alert popped up, I let myself breathe again. My heart had been racing since I woke up. I didn’t sleep well—not because of anxiety but because my brain wouldn’t shut off. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Oliver’s hands, the tension in his jaw, the look he gave me when I asked if he trusted me.
I sipped my tea as I reread the file for the fifth time. It was short. Objective. But pointed. I noted the elevated heart rate during red zone install. The persistent hand tremor during high-stress reps. The uncharacteristic lack of fluidity in body mechanics. I added that while vitals remained technically within range, I noted a clear deviation from his performance baseline, both physically and emotionally. I recommended continued monitoring, with no current cause for removal but a strong need for weekly check-ins.
No one could accuse me of making a snap judgment, and no one could accuse me of being too cautious. The report was balanced, but I still felt like I was walking a tightrope.
By the time I got to the stadium, the building buzzed with game day energy. Kickoff wasn’t until later, but the staff moved like a machine. Equipment managers hauled bags down the tunnel. Video interns reviewed warm-up shots. Coaches gathered in tight clusters with clipboards and radios.
Ivy passed me near the trainers’ room and gave me a small nod. She didn’t stop, but she fist-bumped me and said we’d be grabbing drinks later. I’d love to, but she was so damn busy. One of my personal goals was to make more friends, put myself out there, but I could worry about that later. Today was game day. The start of what-ifs: what if we made it to the Superbowl? What if we had the season of a lifetime? The possibilities were addicting, and today was the start.
With an extra boost of adrenaline, I ensured my office was ready for my first appointment for the day. Jordan Mann.
He knocked five minutes early and pushed the door open without waiting, a half-empty sports drink tucked under one arm and his hoodie zipped halfway over his chest. His socks didn’t match—one black, one gray—and his shorts had a wrinkle along the hem like he’d pulled them out of his bag at the last minute. His black curls were still damp from the shower, and his gold chain flashed once when he dropped into the chair across from me.
Jordan let himself in, already smirking before the door closed behind him.
“Hey, Doc.” His eyes flashed. “You ready for your first game here?”
“I am. Thank you for asking.” I twirled my pen over my thumb, a trick I learned in high school. The motion soothed me, but I didn’t want it to be distracting. “But we’re not here to talk about me. How are you feeling?”
“Agile. Ready. Loose. All the physical parts of this body are top-notch.” He ran one hand over his shoulders, his browsfurrowing. “I just…you never realize how much someone is a part of your routine until they are gone. I’ve thought about texting him ten times today, then the grief hits me that he’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “That kind of loss doesn’t wait for convenient timing.”
He nodded, eyes flicking toward the window. “It’s not even the big moments that get me. It’s the stupid stuff. Like, he always texted me ‘Don’t cramp, idiot’ before every game. I keep checking my phone like his text is delayed.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Our brains are wired around routine. Texts, check-ins, superstitions—they build predictability. And predictability is how we feel safe under pressure.”
He didn’t speak right away, but his jaw clenched once. “I don’t want it to hit me mid-play. I don’t want to be out there and lose it because someone says something that sounds like him.”
“Then let’s plan for that,” I said. “Not avoid it—plan for it. What’s something you can do, physically or mentally, that resets you fast? A breath pattern? Phrase? Visual cue?”
He sat back, more serious now. “I have a tap I use sometimes. Right hand to my thigh, twice. Like a reset button.”
“Perfect. Build that into your warm-up. Use it after huddle breaks. No one has to know it’s for anything other than prep.”
