I didn’t tell her why. That the last time we spoke, Rachel called me a coward. Told me I was an idiot for playing through chest pain. Said watching me gas out on national television made her physically sick. That it felt like watching someone walk into traffic while waving at the camera.
She’d meant it out of love, but her words still gutted me.
What she didn’t know—or maybe she did and didn’t want to carry the guilt of it anymore—was that football helped pay for her shot at something bigger. Our parents couldn’t afford both of us in higher ed, not without debt we’d choke on for the next thirty years. So I made my own dream useful for our family and for her.
But now I was here, bleeding minutes off my life for the same reason as always: to prove my body wasn’t wasted. To prove I wouldn’t fall apart. To prove I could push through my body’s problems and that others could rely on me, trust me. I wanted to be that for everyone else.
I didn’t say any of that though, and Sloane didn’t push.
“Thank you for sharing,” she said, her voice lower now. “I like knowing things like that about people. Our lives are a collection of a million stories like that. They shape us even without our permission.”
“Very shrink-ish of you,” I said, my lips curving up at my teasing of her. It didn’t land like I wanted it to.
She stiffened, a forced smile on her face as she nodded. “Well, I’ll connect with you later. Tell your sister her sabotage was fantastic.”
“Hey,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“You didn’t.” She already adjusted her tablet and mug, shoving the device under her arm as she spun in the opposite direction. “See you at our next appointment, Oliver.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, rocking back on my heels as I watched Dr. Sloane Mercer walk away. The entire interaction confused me—her joy at seeing my shoes, learning about my sister… she didn’t feel like a therapist or anything like that. She seemed fun, and I had to ruin it by making a shrink joke. I rolled my eyes at myself, promising to be better next time I saw her. I wanted her genuine smile, not the doctor one.
3
SLOANE
The hallway smelled like industrial cleaner and gym mats—new rubber laid over old sweat. The kind of scent that never fully disappeared, no matter how much money the franchise poured into rebranding the place. It was early, the lights still buzzing above me like the building wasn’t quite awake. These were the moments I liked best. The ones before everything got loud. I could drink my coffee, wake up, and read a bit about each player, filing away what mattered and what didn’t.
Plus, this place was better than my condo. My silent, too clean, too perfect condo.
I headed toward the performance office with my tablet in hand, already flagging players to follow up with, when I heard footsteps.
“Doc!”
The voice cracked through the quiet, bright and familiar. I glanced up as Jordan Mann jogged around the corner in socks, a hoodie slung over one shoulder, and his bag dragging behind him. He looked like a disgruntled high schooler rather than a semi-famous NFL player. My lips twitched at the image.
“Are you busy?” he asked, a little out of breath. His shoes hung in one hand, sweat on his forehead. His black shirt and joggers showcased his strength and size at the same time.
Glancing at his shoes, he grinned. “I, uh, saw you from across the stadium and might’ve made a poor choice of running over here before putting shoes on. I see now that was a weird decision. We can put that in my file.Doesn’t think things through, goes off instinct.But you know, that’s what makes me good on the field, you know? I go off my gut.” He then patted his stomach.
“I’ll file it away with my other Jordan notes—talks fast, has an audacious personality, wears mismatched socks.”
“Audacious, big word. I like it.” He grinned while wiggling his toes. “I’m superstitious when I fly. Uncle Gio never matched his, told me it was how he lived so long.” Jordan frowned, swallowing hard when he met my gaze. “He raised me, and I’m about to fly to his funeral. I’m freaking out a bit, Doc. Can I steal five minutes, please?”
“I heard about him passing, and I’m sorry.” I reached out, squeezing his forearm before gesturing toward one of the small offices. “We could go in there or head to my office. I’m not sure how much time you have before you need to leave.”
“Here is fine. I like looking at the field. Reminds me of where I’m at and how hard I worked to get here. I never take it for granted.” He smiled, his blue eyes glazing over as he stared off into the distance. He was the team’s best wide receiver, fast, big personality, and had the loyalty of the staff and every player.
He spent his time off the field giving back to the community and hadn’t had a single negative press release about him. He was the glue to the team.
“You mentioned freaking out. What are you freaking out about?”
He exhaled hard, rubbing his palms on his thighs like the motion would keep him grounded. His shoulders twitched, one then the other, his whole body caught somewhere between sitting and sprinting. “I keep thinking I should be falling apart. Like, full-on breakdown mode. This man raised me, and now he’s just... gone.”
His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “It’s like it hasn’t hit. Like my head knows but my body hasn’t caught up. And all I can think about is the walk-through coming up. What if it hits then? What if I’m out there, in the middle of warm-ups, and I just—” He broke off, eyes wide, breath shallow. “What if I fall apart then?”
He looked at me, like I had the answer. Like I could promise it wouldn’t happen.
“And then I feel selfish,” he added, barely above a whisper. “Like I should be a hot mess right now and I’m not. Like I’m doing it wrong.”
