Eventually, I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the charger to see a pileup of messages. A few from Ivy and Callum, checking on me. Our other college friends blew up the group chat with my start—Lorelei Monroe and Mack Romano sending numerous GIFs congratulating me, and I wasn’t surprised their husbands didn’t. Dean and Luca weren’t the chattiest, but they both liked the GIF, which was pretty much a declaration of love.
A flood of unopened notifications waited for me too—final score posts, slow-motion replays, sports accounts tagging me in the highlights. It was a big win for the Rampage to beat LA on our first game of the season, especially when they beat us last year to end our season. Yet all the congrats and soreness hadn’t dulled the real worry in my gut: Sloane.
I hadn’t heard her at all last night, and all I could see was Mac’s face when he walked up to us. The way he froze in the tunnel. The shock that flickered behind his eyes before the judgment settled into his jaw. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t needed to. I knew that look. Knew what it meant to be caught doing something that put someone else’s job on the line. And Sloane? She had risked everything by sitting next to me like that, staying when the stadium emptied, letting me talk like she wasn’t the team’s mental performance lead and I wasn’t the player being monitored.
She should’ve left first. She should’ve been the one to walk away. But she hadn’t. And now I couldn’t stop thinking about the way her mouth tightened when she talked about her mom. The way she softened when I said her name.
And fuck, what if Mac said something? What if she caught shit for sitting with me too long? I hadn’t meant to make things harder for her. She was finally starting to feel like a friend. And then of course Mac saw that, and this shit happened.
I thought about texting her. Something easy, asking if she was okay or good or if she slept alright or if she was in trouble with Mac. But my thumb hovered, and I locked the screen instead. No. Texting her could make it worse. It’d be better to talk to her in person today.
And if she needed space? I’d give it to her. I’d hate myself if talking to her put her job at risk or her reputation that she fought tooth and nail to have.I heard what those asshole mensaid about her, and I refused to play into that narrative or make her life harder.
I had a bit of time before heading to the stadium for post-game meetings. I scrolled through the trending clips from the game. One was a highlight of the touchdown. I didn’t even recognize myself. I looked sharper on screen than I’d felt in real time. The second clip, though, was worse—a slow-motion replay of me stumbling after the last red zone block. The camera zoomed in enough to catch me swaying. Enough to confirm what Sloane already knew. To the average fan, they’d never know, but fuck, I hated seeing myself weak.
You’re breakable, Oliver. You’ll never make it, so stop trying.
My sister’s words echoed in my mind, but I swallowed them away. I refused to let Rachel’s words hurt me. She was wrong. And yeah, she was one of my best friends and had hurt me, but I was fine. I survived the game and played my ass off, so fuck that noise.
By the time I reached the facility, the mood was nothing like game day. The parking lot was half-empty. No music. No joking in the halls. Only the low hum of vents, distant voices, and the quiet shuffle of recovery day.
The lights inside the training wing buzzed faintly, the kind of low hum that worked under your skin when your head was already pounding. I stepped through the doorway and paused.
Ivy stood at the med cart, restocking a row of ankle braces with one of the interns trailing behind her like a shadow. She didn’t look up right away, didn’t need to. She had eyes in the back of her head.
“You’re late,” she said, tone clipped. “Hydro’s already drained, and Mac’s reviewing your movement file in thirty.”
“I’m here,” I muttered, pulling off my hoodie.
She turned then, full body pivot, and gave me the kind of once-over that made rookies sweat. Her eyes dropped to my feet, scanned my posture, then came back up to my face. She didn’t blink.
“You ran hot all second half,” she said. “Heart rate didn’t come down once. And don’t tell me you were just ‘amped.’ I saw the tremor. So did Mercer.”
I clenched my jaw. “She flag me officially?”
Ivy stepped closer, arms crossing over her chest. “She did her job. She flagged what I missed in the moment. And if you have a problem with that, take it up with me—not her.”
“I don’t have a problem with her,” I said, sharper than I meant. I liked how Ivy stood up for Sloane, but I didn’t appreciate the anger in her eyes.
“Good,” Ivy replied. “Because she’s not the one hiding symptoms like a damn rookie trying to make a fucking roster.”
I looked away, heat crawling up my neck.
“You’re not invincible, Oli,” she continued. She always used that name to remind me she did care about me and was one of my best friends outside this stadium.
But her words were the hard truth and holding an edge that never used to be there. “And no one in this building expects you to be. But if you want to keep that number on your back, stop trying to play a fucking hero. That shit’s not brave. It’s reckless.”
I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t have something to say—but because she was right. Every word of it. She let the silence hang in the air, then took the clipboard from the cart and handed it to the intern.
“Stretch out. Hydrate. Tape gets redone before team meeting. And Oliver?” Her voice dropped enough that I had to meet her eyes again. “If you try to downplay anything in front of Mac, I will call you out in real time. Do not test me.”
I gave a stiff nod. She didn’t wait for it. She was already walking back toward the cold tub room, barking directions to one of the rookies about hydration charts.
A second later, Mac stepped out of the conference hall with a binder tucked under his arm and a coffee that still steamed. His eyes skimmed the hallway and landed on me.
“James,” he said. Not a greeting. Not a question. A summons.
I straightened, more alert. “Yes, sir.”
