I shifted slightly, leaning forward so we were eye-level. My voice dropped lower, steadier. “Jordan, that’s not selfish. That’s survival. You’ve spent years learning how to override pain so it doesn’t slow you down. That wiring doesn’t disappear because you're grieving.”
He snorted softly, but it didn’t hold. “Gio would probably tell me to stop crying for him and to go play with my heart tomorrow.”
“But you're not crying for him,” I said. “You're grieving what it means to go forward without him. That’s not about weakness. That’s about loss.”
He swallowed hard, but his hands didn’t move. They were locked on his thighs now, his knuckles white.
“What are you afraid will happen if you fall apart?” I asked gently.
Jordan swallowed, the sound so loud it clicked in the space between us. Then he took a deep breath. “That I won’t pull myself back together and I’ll lose my spot on the team, something we both worked for together.”
“Has that happened before? You not being able to pull yourself back together?”
He paused. “No, but it feels like it could. If anything could break me, it’s losing Gio.”
I nodded. “And what happens if youdon’tfall apart? What part of you gets buried so you can hold it together for everyone else?”
He went still. I let the silence stretch, refusing to fill it with more questions or comments. I loved that silent wait-time, where people’s real thoughts came to the surface.
“Maybe I’m scared that if I let myself feel it,” he said finally, “I’ll play differently. Like it’ll get in my head, and everything will be off. And then what? Then I’ve failed Gio. Then I’ve failed myself.”
“There it is,” I said quietly. “That’s the story you’re telling yourself—that grief equals weakness. That feeling something means you’ll lose your edge on the field.”
He didn’t argue, but his shoulders slumped.
“Here’s what I want you to consider,” I said. “What if playing tomorrowwiththe grief—carrying it, not hiding it—is the most honest way to honor him?”
His breath stuttered.
“What if playingwith your heart cracked openis the bravest thing you’ll do all week?”
Jordan leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, jaw clenched. “You ever lose someone who felt like the only steady thing you had?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
For a second, I saw my brother’s face—grinning, wind in his hair, a football tucked under his arm as he yelled,“Keep up, Sloane!”He always let me win when we raced, even when I didn’t deserve it. Back then, he was the calm in our family’s storm. The steady one. The protector. Always smiling. Always cheering me on.
His eyes opened, and he looked at me for the first time like I was more than a staff badge.
I held the gaze. “My brother. He walked away from the game because of a health condition. It tore him up. He unraveled, and people called it weakness instead of what it was—grief that had nowhere to go. It ate him from the inside out. When you’re taught the only value you have is tied to performance, walking away doesn’t feel like healing—it feels like vanishing. It’s why I’m in this role. It’s what I want to help people with.”
Jordan nodded, understanding swirling in his gaze. It almost seemed like a little respect shining in there too.
“You’re allowed to want to show up tomorrowandbe hurting,” I said. “You’re allowed to be sharp and heartbroken in the same breath.”
“And that’ll help me… not vanish? That’s… why you do this?”
I tilted my head. “Sure, that’s a part of it. The other part is because I don’t think grit and grief should be enemies. This job isn’t about therapy in a traditional sense. It’s about giving athletes a language for pain that doesn’t start with ‘push through it.’”
Jordan stared at the turf lining along the wall. “So… this counts as resilience?”
“It’s the foundation of it.”
He breathed out, slow and careful. “You know the guys call your office the panic room, right?”
“Of course they do,” I said, dry. “Because being honest is scarier than getting hit in the ribs at full speed.”
That earned a genuine laugh, a little crooked and still worn-out. “Yeah, well… this didn’t suck.”
