I opened the door without answering and nodded toward the chair. “Come in.”
He dropped into the seat with a soft grunt and slouched back, elbows braced on the armrests like they were too heavy to hold up on his own. He didn’t make eye contact and pulled at the edge of his sleeve until the fabric twisted, then let go and did it again.That was his baseline when he hadn’t slept, and it tracked with what Ivy noted in his last weekly check-in.
I powered on the tablet and kept my posture steady. “Talk to me. Headaches?”
“No.” His voice cracked slightly before he cleared his throat. “Not really.”
“Sleep?”
He hesitated, jaw tight. “Five hours. Six if you round up. I did the breathing thing you gave me, but my brain wouldn’t shut off.”
“You running through plays?”
“Yeah. And Jordan kept lighting up the group chat. They were all trash-talking Denver like we didn’t lose to a third-string defensive unit.”
He didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his voice. I pulled up his neurometrics from Sunday’s game and tapped through his heart rate spikes during the second half. He’d stabilized quicker than most, but his cortisol level flagged higher than usual in his recovery window. Paired with reduced sleep and irritability…I didn’t like the direction it was heading.
I glanced at him again. He’d gone quiet. Staring past me at the bulletin board like he wasn’t even here.
“You blaming yourself for the loss?” I asked.
His mouth twisted, but he didn’t answer.
I waited.
He finally looked at me, eyes bloodshot. “I shouldn’t have gone no-huddle in the fourth. We had a drive built. I got impatient and forced it. Jordan wasn’t even in the right spot, and that’s on me.”
“That’s a lot to shoulder by yourself.”
He huffed. “Comes with the number.”
“It doesn’t have to come with isolation.”
“I’m not isolating.”
I didn’t push that part. I noted it in his chart—denial of social fatigue. Defensive about team responsibility. Elevated internal pressure, likely rooted in personal perfectionism and fear of perception. He hadn’t had a major flag in over three weeks, but the slope he was on looked familiar. It was the same one I saw in high-achieving rookies who never learned how to fail publicly.
“I want you in a follow-up Friday morning,” I said, logging the note. “We’ll check again after the week settles and before travel prep. If your sleep drops further or your focus shifts, we might need a short rest protocol.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. He ran both hands down his face. “I’m tired. That’s all. I’ll be fine.”
I nodded once and didn’t push. I flagged the entry anyway and sent a silent alert to Ivy to monitor his hydration and reaction times during tomorrow’s walk-through. If he slipped below his performance floor again, I’d bring Mac in.
“Anything else on your mind?” I asked.
He paused, then shook his head. “Don’t bench me. I can fix it.”
“You’re not being benched. You’re being managed.”
He stood up slower than usual. No snark. No sarcastic comment. Just a tight nod and a quiet, “Thanks, Doc.”
He left, and I used the few spare minutes to document more notes. I had two more check-ins with two of the defensemen, both also taking the loss personally, and then I’d have to check in with Mac, William, Ivy, and Booth. My stomach twisted with worry as I smoothed my shirt down, my pulse pounding as I approached Booth’s office.
Booth shut the door before I even reached the chair.
Mac leaned back with his elbows braced on the armrests, eyes unreadable. Ivy sat with her laptop open, cursor blinking on a partially redacted chart. The page was Oliver’s. I could tell from the flagged entries—elevated HR, low oxygen recovery,post-exertion crash. I didn’t sit right away. I waited for the weight in the room to settle.
“He’s stable,” I said before anyone could ask. “Pulse eventually slowed and in a normal sinus rhythm. Respiratory rate improved. All vitals improved without pharmacological intervention. Cognition intact.”
