Ivy patted my shoulder before heading toward the door, her face twisted with sympathy. “I believe in you, Oliver, but you have to make a change. I refuse to let you hurt yourself, as your friend and as your fucking head athletic trainer. Don’t make me bench you because I can.”
She left me with Noah, her words echoing around me. She’d never abuse her position, and if she thought I needed to be benched, she’d tell Coach Booth. He’d listen to her because he was a smart man, but fuck. I had to get my shit together.
“I’m gonna take a walk.” I stood, finishing the drink from Noah. “Thanks for this, brother.”
“Always. And hey, you got this. We’re gonna fucking have the best season of our lives.”
I nodded, my throat tight as I left the weight room without any real goal. It felt comical and unfair, to work so hard to get to this spot, be one of the faces of the team, then to be one stupidepisode away from losing it. God, maybe Ivy was right. I should talk to someone about all this shit.
The second floor near the media hallway was empty this time of morning. The lights hadn’t fully warmed up yet, still casting everything in that soft gray hue like the building hadn’t decided to wake up yet. I moved quietly—habit, not stealth—and turned the corner toward the glass double doors that overlooked the practice field.
And there she was.
Dr. Mercer.
Leaning against the far wall, one foot tucked back, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other. She wasn’t scrolling. She was reading, actually focused, mouth set in a line.
Her hair was down today, darker than I remembered, tucked behind her ear but loose enough to curl at her collarbone. She wore a black Rampage quarter-zip and jeans—not tight but fitted—and clean white sneakers with small Rampage logos stitched into the heel. No clipboard. No notebook.
She didn’t appear like a shrink or like someone trying to get into my head.
She looked calm. Still. Pretty—no, beautiful, but not in the way that punched you in the face. More like it snuck up on you. Like you’d already been looking at her too long before your brain caught on. And she hadn’t seen me yet.
I thought about avoiding her, walking by, and getting my thoughts cleared. But the nagging guilt from leaving her office without finishing our appointment kept my feet rooted. I wasn’t one to be disrespectful. Hell, Ivy preached about how hard it was to be a woman in a sports field, and I hated the idea I’d disrespected her.
I didn’t want her in my goddamn mind. Nothing good ever came from showing weakness, and the coaches relied on me, the guys did. If the truth got out…I could lose their respect and trust.Torn between apologizing and running out of there, I stood, awkwardly, when she took the option away from me.
She turned—smooth, easy, not startled. Like she knew someone was behind her before she saw me. But then her gaze dropped, briefly, and her eyes caught on my sneakers.
Her lips parted, and she let out a cute little gasp. It was so unexpected from her, and my lips curved up before my mind caught up.
“Are those… citrus slices on your shoes?”
I paused mid-step. One foot still slightly lifted, I glanced down automatically, like I’d forgotten what I was wearing.
She looked back up at me, brows raised now, that unreadable expression tilting into something between impressed and confused. “You’re wearing sneakers with oranges on them?”
“Technically tangerines,” I said, lifting my foot even more. “But that makes me sound snobby. Who actually knows the difference between the two?”
She chuckled, and the joy on her face radiated in the short distance between us. She bent down, her smile lingering as her nose scrunched. “I love these! Any fun meaning behind them? Do people call you Tangerine? Or did someone dare you to eat twenty of them one day and you did?”
Damn. I laughed, unexpectedly. “That would be a more entertaining story, but sadly, no. My sister made these for me as a custom gift. It was one of those weird sibling inside jokes, you know? Where it only makes sense to the two of you?”
The amusement in her eyes dimmed, yet she kept her face passive as she nodded. “Well, I love your shoes.”
“Thank you.” I cleared my throat, hating the fact I desperately wanted to know why her clear blue eyes clouded when I mentioned my sister. She was a different person when she smiled and laughed, so warm and unlike the woman I saw in her office yesterday. That Dr. Mercer was polished andclinical, but this woman was all energy. I could sense her pulling back, hiding the initial excitement over my shoes, and without thinking, I blurted out the story. “My sister, Rachel, would attend my practices and games because my parents didn’t know what to do with her, and she hated it. Threw fits as any pre-teen would, and by way of acting out, she’d peel these damn oranges and leave the rinds all over our house.
“It was so dumb,” I continued, trying not to trip over my words as guilt tore at me. Rachel and I hadn’t talked in months, and I missed her. “We started calling it citrus warfare. She’d leave peels in my cleats, under my pillows, in my practice bag. Like she was trying to sabotage me with vitamin C.”
Sloane’s eyes softened, the kind of shift you only catch if you’re paying attention. She straightened slowly, tucking her tablet against her side. “I mean… as far as sibling sabotage goes, that’s one of the more creative ways to do it.”
“She’s creative,” I said, quieter now. “Too smart for her own good, honestly. But she hated football. She only showed up to watch me suffer.”
“Does she still do that? Show up towatch you suffer?”She did finger quotes, her eyes dancing with amusement.
I shook my head, eyes flicking past her to the practice field outside. The glass reflected enough that I could see my jaw clenched tight, shoulders pulled too straight. “No. She’s in Seattle now. Grad school. Doing big things.”
I paused, the familiar ache burning in my chest. “We haven’t talked in a while.”
