The auditorium was full.
All sixty-something players, plus coaching staff, medical, performance, comms. Even PR squeezed along the back wall. The lighting was low, and the screen behind me stayed black, like I asked. No graphics. No slides. No headlines. I didn’t need backup today.
I stood at the front with a clipboard in hand, but I didn’t look at it. I’d memorized every point and knew what I had to say here. This wasn’t about updating but about care. We were humans first, and that point was often forgotten in the hustle of the sport.
Booth sat off to the side, arms crossed. Mac stood against the wall by the doors. William was nowhere in sight—probably already on a call with the League.
I cleared my throat once. The low hum of sideline conversation faded instantly.
“Thank you for being here,” I said. My voice echoed as silence greeted me. Jordan nodded, an encouraging smile, and Oliver stared with his intense blue eyes near the back. “I want to acknowledge what’s been circulating since Thursday—about Marcus Hayes and the incident that occurred in my office.”
I paused, studying expressions, but everyone’s faces remained neutral.
“You’ve likely heard rumors. Or seen headlines. This is your space to get the truth.”
A few players leaned forward. Quinn. Noah. Ty had his jaw locked so tight I saw the tension in his cheek from ten feet away.
“Hayes is currently on a medical leave of absence,” I continued. “It is league-sanctioned and indefinite. He’s being evaluated by external providers. As of this morning, he has been removed from the facility access roster, and his locker has been cleared.”
I let that sit for a second.
“No one’s asking you to erase your history with him. I’m not here to change how you feel about him. But I am here to protect every person in this room—including the staff.”
A breath from the second row. Noah, probably. I couldn’t quite tell.
“Everything in this organization is built on trust. On safety. And when someone compromises that, it has to be addressed. I filed a formal misconduct report. I followed policy, and the organization backed that process.”
This time, they nodded. Ivy’s presence behind the bench row mattered—she stood with her arms crossed, watching everyreaction like she’d jump to my defense. That made me feel like I belonged, something I’d wanted my entire life.
“Moving forward,” I continued, “we’ll be offering optional one-on-one sessions with me or anyone on the mental performance team. No reports. No judgment. If you’re struggling with what happened—if you’re angry, confused, or feel off—you’re not alone.”
A beat.
“And Monday morning, we’ll hold a quiet check-in for Hayes’s position group. Jordan and a few others have already agreed to help support that. Just a space to talk.”
I scanned the room. “That’s it from me. If you have questions, my door is open. I’ll give you the truth. But for now—focus on game day.”
I didn’t ask for questions. I didn’t need applause. I turned to Booth, gave a small nod, and stepped down from the riser.
The room stayed quiet for a second.
Then one of the rookies—Ty, I think—spoke, loud enough for the people around him to hear. “Damn. Mercer’s a badass.”
A few chuckles. Someone clapped. Then another. It wasn’t applause, not really. It was respect.
I felt it all the way to my core.
18
OLIVER
The tunnel buzzed with static nerves and low chatter. Shoulder pads creaked. Tape ripped. Cleats scraped against the concrete like war drums. It should’ve felt routine by now—my second start, my body dialed in—but the energy today was different. Tighter. Not fear. Not even anxiety. Just a low, steady hum under my skin that hadn’t left since I left Sloane’s place Saturday morning.
Sloane’s voice was still in my head.
Her speech in the team room yesterday had leveled the entire damn place. No slides, no hesitation, no bullshit. Just calm authority, spine straight, her voice like steel laced with something almost gentler underneath. She didn’t ask for respect. She commanded it.
I hadn’t looked away once.
