It almost made me smile. It did make me want to work twice as hard to have that feeling remain.
I stayed in that hallway for another full minute after they left. The noise from the locker room was muffled now—shouts, music, someone chanting something about winning dinner bets. But the air felt cold. Stale.
I pulled up my notes again. Tapped Oliver’s name. Added one more line.
Watchlist confirmed.
Then I walked toward the exit, tablet in hand, phone silent. I didn’t need another message from my mother to tell me what I already knew.
I wasn’t here for them.
I was here for the players who couldn’t say the truth out loud.
And I was going to make damn sure Oliver James made it through this season with his head—and his body—still intact.
The stadium emptied in waves.Fans first. Then media. Then volunteers and interns in packs, clearing signage and field gear like clockwork. I stayed in the back corridor, logging the final flags, sending Mac the watchlist right on time. Four guys needed watching and discussion with the leadership team, but that could wait until tomorrow.
My badge itched against my collarbone. I unclipped it and shoved it in my purse as I stood and stretched. My back cracked. I wasn’t used to this much standing, this much scanning, this much adrenaline crashing down all at once.
I needed to go home and relax, sleep… then come back and join the chaos again. People lingered all over the stadium and with my bag and phone in hand, I started the walk toward theparking garage but paused when I glanced at the field. It was massive, and silence echoed throughout as I stared, breathing it all in. That was when I spotted a familiar figure down in the bleachers.
Oliver.
I slowed, forgetting how tired I was and how I should head back home.
He wasn’t in pads anymore. No jersey. His hoodie was a different one—dark charcoal, soft at the edges, sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he’d done it without thinking. His joggers were loose, casual, but his cleats were gone. Clean white sneakers, without any pattern, unlaced. His hair was still damp, curled at the ends, a few strands falling loose. He seemed defeated, yet the team won, and he played a hell of a game.
He didn’t move when I stopped beside him. His forearms rested on his knees, fingers interlocked as I approached. Too many shouldn’ts coursed through my mind, but I ignored them and sat down two seats from him. “Hey.”
He glanced up slowly. His eyes were bloodshot, like he hadn’t blinked in too long. Still sharp. Still wary. But tired. More than tired. Exhausted.
“Hi,” I said again, quieter this time. Like anything louder might undo him.
He nodded and kept his eyes on the empty field. His shoulders didn’t drop. His jaw didn’t unclench.
I waited. Two breaths. Three. The silence didn’t feel awkward. But it did feel full.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” he said finally, voice low and gravelly.
I nodded, scanning his face and tense shoulders. His fingers were curled into fists. “I was leaving, but I saw you here and came down.”
He hummed but didn’t respond, and I had the urge to fill the silence. “Why are you acting like you lost?”
He huffed out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it had more energy behind it. “Kind of feels like I did.”
“You didn’t,” I said, careful with the words. “You played well. You know you did.”
He didn’t answer. I pulled my knees up slightly, keeping my feet balanced on the edge of the seat below us. I hated seeing him like this, so unsure. This was a far cry from the charismatic flirt I was used to seeing. “Oliver,” I said, letting my voice drop low. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing it like he could wipe the day off. His pale blue eyes softened as his gaze dropped to my mouth, where I caught myself gnawing on my lip again. I stopped. A flicker of something—humor, maybe—crossed his face. “Football was my whole life. My only plan. Everyone bought into that, especially my family.”
“Okay,” I said gently. “What changed?”
“Started in college.” He shifted in his seat, posture tight. “Passed out during practice. Got dizzy after film days. My heart rate spiked when I wasn’t even moving. I figured out how to manage it. Learned the signs. Adjusted when I had to. But the second the trainers got involved and I had to start telling the truth about it, everything shifted. The way people looked at me. Coaches. My family.”
He exhaled, slow. “My sister called it a liability. Said I was being selfish for playing at all when I should walk away. My dad… he didn’t say anything. Not once. He looked through me like I was already the thing he feared most—wasted potential.”
My chest ached. I knew that language without hearing the words.
