“Neither is she,” Noah added, but admiration rang in his tone.
I laughed, the tension from earlier finally breaking. I wasn’t just the doctor in this moment. I wasn’t the outsider trying to act normal. I was a Cubs fan in a box seat, yelling at the screen with people who didn’t treat me like I had to earn my spot here.
And Oliver hadn’t looked away once. If anything, he leaned closer to me and nudged my shoulder. “There she is,” he said quieter.
God, his comment had me warm. It was strange and wonderful to be seen by him, truly, while it also startled me. I shouldnotbe having these feelings from a patient.
“Hm?” I was a little dizzy with how close he was to me. He smelled good, like soap and cologne and something warm, and he kept making sure our legs touched. Every time I moved positions, he shifted, and sure, he was a big guy, but this felt intentional.
“I like you wild like this, smiling and loud and not worrying.” His tongue wet the side of his mouth, the gesture wildly dangerous. His hand landed on the armrest, fingers stretching wide, his pinky brushing the hem of my jeans. My heart thudded too hard in my chest, every inch of my body on alert. “You’re beautiful.”
I sucked in a breath, completely frozen at his compliment.No one had ever said that to me in that way, unfiltered, without wanting something in return.
He exhaled, slow, his jaw flexing as he leaned closer to me. Our mouths were inches apart, our bodies humming with energy as he reached over, squeezing my knee before the suite went wild.
A sharp cheer cut through as the camera swept across the lower decks and landed squarely on our box. The Jumbotron lit up, full color and unforgiving. The screen filled with our section—loud, wild, too many familiar faces. “And with us today, Cub Fans, are a few of the Rampage players! Let’s hear it for the Rampage winning the season opener this weekend!”
Jordan jumped up and flexed. Noah, deadpan, lifted his beer like a salute. Ivy clapped and hollered like she’d never yelled at a player in her life. Callum pointed at himself dramatically, hamming it up.
And there, right in the center, clear enough for all to see—me and Oliver. Leaning close. Knees touching. Our heads bent toward each other like we were in the middle of something we weren’t supposed to be in.
I sat up straighter, pulse kicking. I tried to slide a few inches away without making it obvious.
Too late.
The crowd clocked the Rampage players instantly. Chants broke out—Jordan’s name, then Noah’s. Then Oliver. The sound made my skin crawl and my stomach twist.
I lifted my drink, needing something in my hands, my face absolutely on fire from the attention.One thing struck me though from seeing us on the jumbotron. I looked happy—something I wasn’t sure I had been in quite some time.
12
OLIVER
Despite Sloane letting loose with us at the Cubs game and something shifting between us, a distance grew, and I hated it. It had been a few days since I sat by her, laughed with her, and we hadn’t run into each other. I went to Graham’s three nights in a row, hoping she’d show and I’d get a glimpse of the woman who snorted and cussed like a sailor while watching the game. Yet, she never came.
She never stopped by my place, and I definitely debated knocking on her door a few times but stopped myself. I fucking hated this weird gray area, where something existed, but neither of us acknowledged it. It lived in the tension of her absence. It echoed whenever I passed her office and didn’t hear her voice. I wasn’t sure if I did something wrong or if this was how things went with her—burn hot, then vanish. But whatever it was, it was crawling under my skin, and I wasn’t sure how long I could sit in the confusion without saying anything.
I had a meeting with her today, per Mac and Booth’s orders, and while it wasn’t for another few hours, I had to distract myself. The mood at the stadium wasn’t helping. Hayes’s injury wasn’t only a hit—it was a gut punch to the entire facility. Ithappened during a standard install rep—red zone, third down, nothing flashy. He cut late on the post, and the corner didn’t hold back. The crack of the helmets was loud, louder than it should’ve been on a Thursday. He hit the turf without a sound. Just dropped. Didn’t move.
Ivy was the first one there, followed by a flood of med staff. Booth cut the session immediately, but the damage was done. Hayes looked hollow when they got him sitting up—eyes open but unfocused. His hands twitched, then stilled. That was his third concussion in a year. Everyone knew it. No one said it out loud. But it sat in the locker room like smoke, thick and choking.
Mac had him pulled from all meetings. Full rest protocol. Mercer was tapped for a cognitive screen, and Hayes hadn’t exactly been subtle about his hatred for therapy. “I don’t need a shrink. I need a clear head,” he’d said once in the dining hall. Now he was scheduled for a sit-down with her today, and I didn’t like it. He’d been wound up even before the hit. If he spiraled in her office, it wouldn’t be the first time someone didn’t handle the news well behind closed doors.
Until then, I was trying to stay loose. No full practice scheduled today—just optional lift and film review. Most of us trickled in, hit the tubs, grabbed protein, tried to look like we weren’t worried. But we were. Everyone was. Hayes was a veteran. Well-liked. If the League decided this was it for him, it’d send a message to the rest of us about how quickly a career could end.
The weight room buzzed with low music, the kind of background noise that was loud enough to keep thoughts from spiraling. I slipped on a pair of gloves, adjusted the Velcro, and stepped into the squat rack to burn through some of these feelings. Reps were good—they made me feel something besides the unease about Hayes and my own career and the worry about Sloane and her distance from me. Pushing hard felt good, andmy body felt good today, primed, tight. No heavy heartbeat or clouds.
That’s what was so fucking annoying about my body. Some days, I felt like I could fly.
“Light day,” Coach Avery, our strength and conditioning coach, called from the other side of the gym. He leaned on the dumbbell rack with his usual sharp eyes. “Three sets, four movements. Don’t be a hero, James.”
I nodded and dropped into my warm-up set. The steel bar sat clean across my shoulders, weight manageable but heavy enough to ground me. Every time I sank low and drove back up, I thought about the meeting later. Sloane’s office. That clipboard she always held. The way her voice changed when she went into work mode.
My third rep stuck for a half-second longer than it should’ve. I pushed through it, teeth clenched, and reracked the bar.
Jordan dropped onto the bench beside mine with a water bottle tucked under one arm. “You gonna kill that squat rack or marry it?”
“Not in the mood,” I muttered, annoyed at the interruption but also grateful to not be alone. I was always fucking alone at home, and it was exhausting.
