I finally stood, my legs unsteady. My lungs couldn’t get enough air. The inside of my helmet felt a hundred degrees too hot.
By the time I reached the sideline, Ivy was already there, frowning, med kit in hand.
“Sit,” she said, guiding me down.
My heart pounded like a damn drumline. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I couldn’t breathe. Each gasp of air hurt.
“Heart rate’s 160,” she muttered. “Respirations, 24. BP’s 148 over 89. You’re not cooling, Oliver.”
I ripped my helmet off and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
“It’s fine,” I managed.
“It’s not.” She clipped the pulse ox on my finger. “You didn’t cool down during halftime. You spiked again. This isn’t cardio fatigue—it’s neurological stress.”
I searched the sideline, eyes catching on a black hoodie.
Sloane stood near the tent, clipboard in one hand, talking to Mac. When her gaze met mine, her eyes widened, and her pretty mouth parted in worry.
“I need her,” I said quietly.
Ivy shook her head. “She’s not your nurse. She’s your doctor. And you’re off the field. Don’t fight me on this, Oli. I’m fucking serious.”
The locker room buzzed like it always did after a win—laughter, slaps on the back, music turned up too loud—but none of it reached me. I sat at my stall, elbows braced on my knees, still in my undershirt and pants, drenched with sweat and adrenaline I couldn’t shake. My body ached in ways it hadn’t since college. My chest was still too tight. My head too heavy.
Ivy checked on me once more before leaving. “Text me if anything worsens. I mean it, Oliver.”
I nodded.
I didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. Didn’t bother with the media. I changed into joggers and a hoodie, tugged the hood up, and left without saying much of anything. My head was pounding by the time I got home, but I didn’t want meds. Didn’t want to think.
I laid on the couch for a minute. Maybe five.
Next thing I knew, it was dark outside. The TV played replays on mute. My phone buzzed on the coffee table, unread messages piling up, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My limbs were heavy. My mouth dry. I couldn’t even remember falling asleep.
When I finally checked the time, it was 9:13.
Shit.
I sat up too fast. My chest seized. Sweat pooled at the back of my neck.
I was supposed to see her.
We hadn’t set a time, hadn’t confirmed it—but I’d told her we’d talk after the game. That we’d figure it out. That I’d show up.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and threw on the same hoodie, my body aching with each movement. I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed my keys and ran to her door.
By the time I banged on her apartment door, my heart was racing for all the wrong reasons.
What if she wasn’t home? What if I missed my shot?
What if she thought I didn’t care?
I knocked again, louder. “Sloane, please. It’s me.”
Silence.
Then, movement. The lock turned.
