SLOANE
The week moved in strange rhythms—some too fast, others like molasses. Monday morning started with the check-in for Hayes’s unit. I wasn’t sure who would come. Jordan showed first, sitting stiffly with his hands folded like he was waiting for a court ruling. Ty leaned against the wall, jaw locked, refusing to look at anyone. Noah kept pacing until his words came out all at once—“He was a good teammate. And I feel like an asshole for not saying something sooner.”
I didn’t have answers. I didn’t offer platitudes. I listened. I kept the lights low and the tone neutral, but the tension never left the room. They weren’t angry at me. They weren’t even angry at Hayes. They were grieving the loss of someone who’d been part of their routine, their trust circle.
By Tuesday, the medical logs from Sunday’s game finally came through. Ivy flagged Oliver’s recovery chart in red. For the fourth quarter all his vitals were elevated, not just his pulse. His respiratory rate was significantly higher than normal.Minor coordination delays on the final drive. The data confirmed what I already knew in my gut—he’d pushed himself too far. Again.And I hadn’t stopped it. Because I wasn’t supposed to intervene. Because I wasn’t Sloane with him here. I was Dr. Mercer.
Wednesday blurred in spreadsheets and schedule tweaks. Player meetings ran long. The film room stayed full until after dark. I kept my distance from the weight room and training tables, trying to keep the lines clean. I saw Oliver across the facility three times. We didn’t speak. But every time he looked my way, he smirked and let his gaze drop to my legs. I always wore joggers, but his gaze heated my skin like he intended.
Thursday brought PR follow-ups, League compliance forms, and one quiet message from Mac stating that I was going on the road trip. It wasn’t an ask—it was a demand, and I loved feeling included. His words were short.‘You’re coming with us. Pack a bag for 2 nights.’
I stood on the tarmac, bag slung over my shoulder with my headphones around my neck. My stomach somersaulted like I was on a swing, which was silly. Sure, it was my first road trip with the team. Sure, I hated flying but who didn’t? I was a control freak, and flying in a plane was the ultimate lack of control. It was a five-hour flight to Los Angeles, and sure… it was possible the knots in my gut had to do with the fact my parents and brother lived there.
It was easier, simpler, to pretend to not think about them when I was in Chicago. But being in their city? I rubbed my chest, the ache amplifying as I slowly exhaled.
“You alright, Doctor Mercer?” Noah appeared next to me, his ridiculous size and height dwarfing me. He was the complete contradiction—massive man who could’ve been scary, but he softened himself and made himself appear less intimidating. He often crouched when speaking, making his height less, and that said a lot about him.
“Doc or Sloane is fine,” I replied, flashing him a quick smile. “But yes, I’m okay.”
“I’m going to pretend to believe you, but as an anxious flier myself, it takes one to know one.”
“How do you?—”
He jutted his chin toward my white knuckles clutching the strap of my bag. “I’m taking extra vitamins and an occasional anti-anxiety pill for instances like this to help me fall asleep. I listen to white noise on my headphones and always sit in my lucky spot.”
“What’s that?”
“12A, baby. I’ll save you a seat next to me if you want.” He grinned and nudged his shoulder into mine in a playful, gentle move. “We can freak out together where no one else can see.”
“Am I allowed to sit with the players?” I asked, chewing my lip.
He grinned, eyes crinkling as he leaned closer like we were conspiring. “Technically? No. But emotionally? Absolutely. Besides, I’m basically the team’s emotional support lineman.” He bent closer, his voice softening. “Sit with me, Doc. If anyone gives us grief, I’ll throw them down the aisle.”
I chuckled, pleased at the invitation. I never thought I’d feel like one of the team when I worked here. I mentally prepared to be on the outs for years, so it felt nice to have even a few of the players warm up to me.
I observed everyone around me as I boarded the plane.
The plane buzzed with low conversation and rustling gear bags. Ivy stood near the front with her hair in a low braid, double-checking her emergency med kit, while William leaned against the opposite wall, already jotting notes into a legal pad with AirPods in. Mac and Booth were locked in quiet conversation by the galley, heads bent over a tablet, both looking exhausted but sharp. A few assistant coaches filled the front half of the plane, eating protein bars and talking coverage. The offensive line took up a whole row near the middle—Ty had oneleg propped across the aisle, headphones blasting bass-heavy music as he snored, while Jordan was mid-laugh with Quinn about something probably inappropriate. Most of the full roster had made the trip—starters, backups, and even a couple of injured reserves. They stretched across the rows like they’d done this a hundred times. Comfortable. Confident. This was routine for them. For me, it was still surreal. The football fan in me was losing my mind at seeing all this talent and money.
I scanned the rows again and spotted Noah already half-reclined in 12A, his hoodie up, eye mask resting on his forehead like he hadn’t committed to sleep yet. He looked up and grinned when he saw me hovering near the aisle.
“Sloane, seat’s still yours,” he said, patting the empty spot beside him. “You get bonus points for courage under pressure. Plus, I make a great pillow.”
I made my way down, offering a polite nod to one of the special teams guys who stepped aside to let me through. I dropped into the seat, clutching the armrest.
The plane hadn’t even moved.
“You alright?” Noah asked, voice quieter now. He slid his bag under the seat and popped his earbuds out.
“Totally fine,” I said.
“Your death grip says otherwise.” He nudged my arm. “Don’t worry. If we go down, I’ll protect you with my giant body.”
I snorted. “That’s so reassuring. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Human airbag at your service.”
He reached into his hoodie pocket and handed me a wrapped ginger chew. “For the nerves. My mom used to give me these every time I had a test. Flight’s basically a mental exam, right?”
