First down.
The crowd roared again. My helmet didn’t feel like it fit anymore.
Next snap, Ty ran a slant, and Quinn hit him for the touchdown. The place erupted.
I didn’t celebrate. I couldn’t.
I made it to the sideline. Ivy stood close. She had a towel in her hand and didn’t offer it. Watched me. I kept my head down, letting the roar around me cover the way I sat on the bench too slowly.
Booth’s voice cut through everything. “Finish strong!”
I nodded, eyes on the field, vision tunneling. My body screamed to rest for a second.
We closed out the game with a final defensive stop. I didn’t get another snap. I didn’t need one.
The clock ran out.
We won.
9
SLOANE
The final whistle didn’t bring relief. It brought a different kind of weight. We did it. We won game one without any major injuries. Gratitude spread through my shoulders, my pulse finally slowing. The adrenaline crash would come hard and fast, but I welcomed it. All the work and failed relationships came to this moment. Me having a spot on the staff for a professional football team.
The scoreboard lit up. The crowd roared. My fingers didn’t stop moving. I stayed locked on my tablet, notes flying in as bodies cleared the field. Ivy was already on the move, headset off, radio clipped to her vest. Med interns fanned out like a pit crew, checking equipment, retrieving wraps. I kept my eyes on Oliver.
He didn’t fall. He didn’t flinch, but he also didn’t celebrate. He moved like someone playing defense against his own body. His sharp words to me earlier stung, but he was being defensive. I knew he wanted me to back off, but it was my job to monitor his mental health.
I flagged him.
Oliver James: Primary flag. Delayed post-impact rise. Labored recovery pace. Minimal reaction post-touchdown. Left hand tremor while hydrating. Field affect blunted. Request HR monitoring (Ivy) + game film check.
I kept typing as the players disappeared into the tunnel. Cleats on concrete. Shoulder slaps. Someone shouted about pasta. Jordan jogged past, jawline slick with sweat and joy, eyes red but heart steady. He pointed at the sky, then at me.
“I squared up, Doc,” he said. “Appreciate you.”
My lips twitched. That dude hadn’t broken, and I was damn proud of him. My phone buzzed, and thinking it would be Ivy or Mac, I glanced at my watch, and my stomach dropped.
My mom texted me—she never, ever reached out to me unless it was something passive aggressive. I should’ve ignored it. That would’ve been the smart thing to do. Hell, I knew better. I coached people on how to avoid triggers during high-stress times, yet I had to read it. What if something happened to Caleb?
Mom: your brother saw you on TV and spiraled. Didn’t realize you’d be a sideline cheerleader with those degrees.
My eye twitched as the familiar heat of anger rose in my chest, clogging what little joy I’d let myself feel from the win. Of course she’d send that text now—after the final whistle. She wouldn’t want me to enjoy the moment. No, she’d want me to hurt.
I thought about calling my brother Caleb—to hear his voice, to know he was still breathing, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. He’d twist the blame. That was our rhythm now: silence and resentment layered over what used to be love.
My throat tightened as I locked the screen and shoved the phone deep into my pocket. A flicker of worry wedged its way down my spine.
“Hey,” a voice said behind me, deep and genuinely concerned. “You alright? You kinda stumbled there.”
Noah Abbott stood beside me, a full head taller, sweat-slicked and still breathing hard, but his expression was soft. He extended a hand, like he was gonna catch me.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, pushing down the burn behind my ribs. “Thanks though.”
I forced a smile and gestured toward the tunnel. “Great game tonight, Abbott.”
He grinned, still not moving. “Felt like a damn street fight out there. Love when we earn the W.”
