“Didn’t ask,” Jordan said, but his voice came out softer, less smartass and more concerned. “Figured since you’re staring at that sled like it owes you child support, I’d check in.”
I peeled off my gloves and didn’t bother pretending I was fine. “I need to move today.”
“Same. I’ve been stress-chewing through protein bars all morning.” He tossed his towel toward the bench and sat beside me, bracing his elbows on his knees. “This Hayes shit is messing with me. It shouldn’t have even happened, ya know? Just…we’re all one injury away from ruining our careers.”
I exhaled slowly. His injury rattled me too, but his comment even more so. He had no fucking idea how much that statement plagued me every second of the day. “You think he’s out?”
Jordan didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together as he stared at the turf. “Three concussions in a year? Even if he clears protocol, the League’s gonna start asking questions. Mac already is. And you know Hayes… he won’t go quietly.”
I nodded once. “He left the locker room before Ivy even cleared him. Shoved one of the interns. Didn’t even blink.”
“That’s Hayes.” Jordan’s voice was laced with something heavier than usual. “When he’s on your team, you feel it. That intensity, that ride-or-die loyalty. He’s the guy who’ll start a fight to defend your name. But when that energy turns inward? It’s like trying to hold fire with your bare hands.”
My jaw clenched. “And now they’re sitting him in a room with Mercer. Telling him maybe he doesn’t get to do this anymore.”
Jordan turned to me slowly. “She’s good. Real good. But I don’t like that she might be in there alone. Not with someone like Hayes. Not if he feels like everything’s being taken away. Plus, concussions fuck with your personality. I’ve seen guys change completely from a head bang. Shit scares me.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of what none of us could fix. We were players. Teammates. Witnesses to a system that moved too fast and left the bruised in its wake. I looked toward the hallway where Sloane’s office sat tucked behind the training wing. A prickle of worry edged its way down my spine.
Coach Avery called time on the lift block, and Jordan peeled off toward the turf with two of the rookies for footwork drills. I headed toward the cold tub, pulled my shirt over my head, and tried not to think about how quiet the rest of the facility felt.
By the time I’d hit the recovery room, checked in with Ivy, and reviewed my packet for Mercer, it was an hour until my appointment with Sloane and fuck it. I wanted to hang out, get a glimpse of her before she went all clinical on me. I knew the second I tried to ask about her, she’d go in Doc mode, and while I appreciated her role here, I missed the other version of her.
I showered, changed, and put on loose shorts and a Rampage T-shirt, hyperaware of the whispers and rumbles around the stadium all worrying about Hayes. His concussion was on Wednesday, so twenty-four hours later, he had to meet with Mercer. I hadn’t heard how his meeting went with her, and I was glad to have an appointment with her to make sure she was okay. Hayes could rattle anyone with his large size and attitude.
I took the long way through the corridor, past the cold tub and the old nutrition room, pretending I wasn’t buying time. The packet Ivy handed me was folded in half in my back pocket. I wasn’t going to need it. I already knew what Sloane would ask. My stats. My sleep. My HR readings. I didn’t care about any of that—I wanted to see her.
Her office door was almost closed. Not latched. The hallway was quiet, no trainers or interns passing by, just the buzz of the lights overhead. I was about to knock when I heard a voice—loud, angry. I was early. She wasn’t expecting me for another twenty minutes. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
But the second I heard Hayes’s voice, I stopped breathing.
“I’m not broken,” he snapped. Loud. Clipped. Like the words hurt to say. “I’m not some fucking charity case you fix with therapy buzzwords and printed PDFs.”
I froze mid-step, my fingers tightening around the folder in my hand. His voice didn’t sound pissed—it sounded unhinged and dangerous.
Sloane responded, calm but firmer than usual. She never raised her voice, and yet she did now, an edge of fear comingthrough. “This isn’t about labels. It’s about impact. Marcus, your last scan shows swelling around?—”
“Don’t say that like it fucking means something,” he shouted. Something heavy slammed down—maybe a book, or the back of his fist on her desk. “You ever forgotten where you are mid-sentence? Woken up and not remembered your kid’s name? You think that’s something you can score on your stupid little form?”
Silence. Then her voice again—lower now, careful. “No. I don’t think that. But I think we need to understand where you are before anyone makes decisions.”
“You’re here to justify cutting me,” he snarled. “You and Mac, hiding behind medical clearance. Acting like you care when all you want is to bury me with the other has-beens. You don’t fucking understand. None of you do.”
“No one said anything about cutting you,” she said, but I could hear it now—the tension. It threaded under every word, pulled too tight. “We need to make sure you’re stable. We want you safe, Marcus. That’s all—please, sit?—”
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” His voice exploded. A sharp bang—louder this time. A violent scrape of wood against floor. “You don’t know what it’s like to get benched in slow motion! Every fucking day, someone looking at me like I’m dying, like I’m already done?—”
“I’m not looking at you like that,” she cut in. “But right now, you’re not okay. You need to breathe.”
“Don’t patronize me.” His voice dropped low. That was worse. Cold. Dangerous. “I’m not your fucking project, sweetheart, and you of all people will not stop me from playing. I’ll guarantee it.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up before the crash even landed.
Then it came—shattering glass, loud and sudden, followed by a guttural roar of frustration that turned my stomach to stone. Ididn’t think. I didn’t pause. My feet moved, hard and fast, and I slammed the door open with my shoulder like instinct had taken over.
Hayes towered over her desk, his face twisted with something beyond anger. A photo frame lay shattered near his foot, shards of glass glinting across the carpet like broken teeth. The chair in front of her desk was flipped, and her lamp lay on its side. Papers were scattered everywhere. But it was Sloane that made my pulse spike.
She stood behind her desk, body frozen, one hand raised like she was trying to block him—not protect herself, protecthim. Her fingers were curled awkwardly, blood already pooling in the center of her palm from where the broken frame had caught her. Her other hand gripped the desk edge, white-knuckled.
