Booth nodded once but didn’t look away from me. “What happened?”
I didn’t answer right away. I pulled the tablet closer and flipped to my private version of the report. “What I documented is accurate. Episode consistent with acute physiological stress response and dehydration. Triggered under team review context. No physical incident occurred.”
Mac leaned forward. “Sloane.”
“I’m being honest,” I said, voice steady. “But I’m also honoring his privacy. If I write the exact words that were said in that meeting, I lose trust. Not just with him—but with every player who ever walks through my door again.”
Ivy looked up from her screen. “We’re not asking you to quote him. We need to understand the context. Is this a one-time event or the result of a pattern?”
I kept my tone clinical, but it took effort. “His vitals have been trending up all week. He’s reported fatigue, minor appetite suppression, and intermittent shortness of breath. He masked it until walk-through when the constant discussion of the next game and worries about altitude became overwhelming. The confrontation pushed him into overload. His body shut the rest of him down before he could override it.”
Booth narrowed his eyes. “So this wasn’t physical instability.”
“No,” I said. “It was exhaustion. Emotional, cognitive, physical—all at once.”
Mac exhaled slowly. “You think he knew it was coming?”
“He’s not wired to ask for help. Not unless it’s too late.”
William entered without knocking, dropping a folder on the table before taking the open seat beside Ivy. “Cardiac panel’s in. Elevated but not acute.”
Booth looked at me again. “Your recommendation?”
“Short-term hold,” I said. “Limit all physical activity. Neurocognitive screenings daily. No League reporting unless symptoms recur or worsen.”
“Are you confident he’s not a risk to himself?” Mac asked.
“I’m confident he’s overwhelmed, not unstable,” I answered. “He’s not showing signs of depressive collapse or avoidance. He came to me. He didn’t shut down completely. He’s scared, but he’s still present.”
William tapped his pen against the folder. “We need to track his resting HR tonight. I want him hydrated and off all stimulants. No caffeine, no supplements. Full sleep cycle.”
“I’ll follow up with him directly,” I said. “He listens better in quiet settings.”
Ivy glanced between all of us. “We need to be smart about how this circulates. Players talk. If we overreact, he’ll lose the room. If we underreact, we put him at risk.”
Booth finally leaned back. “So we keep it internal.”
“Yes,” I said. “If this were any other player, we’d treat it the same way. Elevated vitals, controlled response, monitored return.”
Mac didn’t argue. “Fine. You monitor stress and cognition. William oversees medical. Ivy handles compliance.”
I reached for my tablet. “I’ll check in with him before he leaves.”
No one pushed for more. They didn’t have to. We all wanted the same thing—Oliver healthy, protected, and still on the field. But only if he could handle it. And right now, that wasn’t a certainty. Ivy held my gaze longer than the rest, her eyesnarrowing as she fisted her hand. Her and Oliver were friends, had been for a long time, and she also kept things in. I hoped the look she gave me was in solidarity, not accusation.
Swallowing the unease, I nodded to her then left the room, giving myself a second to breathe in and out. Oliver was safe, he was fine, for today. We’d ensure he always would be, and that was when it hit me.
I cared about him. Deeply. The thought of anything happening to him caused me physical pain, deep in my chest, and that terrified me. How could I have these feelings for someone who could destroy my career? Who could hurt themselves to the point they might not make it?
No.
Be better than this. I forced myself to push those thoughts away. I could worry about those later at home. I was a professional, and I had a job to do. I stood taller, forced my face to relax, and clutched my tablet to my chest. I’d be able to face him later and be objective. I had no choice.
I foundhim in the cold recovery room. Hoodie still on. Eyes fixed on the floor.
He sat at the far end of the table, legs spread, shoulders hunched forward like he hadn’t moved since William unhooked the leads. The wires were gone, and his vitals had stabilized enough to clear him from medical hold—for now. But I could still see it. The heaviness in the way he kept his hands clenched in his lap. The tension in his jaw when he heard the door open but didn’t look up.
I closed it behind me and walked to the other side of the room. Gave us distance.
