William picked the chart back up. “SVT isn’t the end of a career. But it’s the start of constant oversight, and we need to talk about medication. And if Mac catches wind that there’s a risk profile in flux, Oliver’s days as a starter are numbered.”
“If this gets out before we confirm, he loses leverage,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“That’s why we get ahead of it now,” I continued. “Clear documentation. Structured response. Full transparency—once we have confirmation.”
William nodded. “And until then?”
“I manage it,” I said, my stomach in shambles at the guilt and stress of my internal battle. I couldn’t tell Oliver. I couldn’t. It’d ruin him, and I wanted to throw up. Yet, I forced the bile down and nodded at William. “Same as I always do.”
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. “Let me know when he’s ready to see me. I’ll get the echo scheduled.”
By the timeI stepped into the staff meeting hours later, my head was already pounding. The kind of ache that bloomed behind my eyes and refused to ease, no matter how many breaths I forced in and out of my lungs. I’d taken the side door through diagnostics to avoid unnecessary conversation, but it hadn’t helped. Nothing helped.
William’s confirmation had cracked something open inside me. Paroxysmal SVT. It was manageable on paper. Treatable. It sounded like something we could handle—if this were a different player, a different case, a different set of circumstances. But Oliver wasn’t just another athlete on our roster, and ourcircumstances weren’t simple. He was mine, the man I was with, and this would kill him. Figuratively, emotionally.
He didn’t know yet. I hadn’t told him. The words stayed lodged in my throat, too tangled with fear and guilt to push out. I didn’t know if I was protecting him or myself, and the back and forth ruined any appetite I had. This was my fear, putting my career or him first, and I had to pick career to protect him.
Ivy slid the updated recovery report into my hands as I sat. I clicked the shared screen on the wall, pulled up the performance dashboard, and kept my expression neutral.
My fingers moved through the tabs like muscle memory. Ty. Quinn. Jordan. The list of flagged metrics was long but familiar. I barely registered the words. The only file playing on loop in the back of my mind was Oliver’s.
“Ty’s migraines are back,” Ivy said quietly beside me, her eyes already on her tablet. “That’s three this month.”
“Flag him for full neuro if he reports one more before Monday,” I said automatically. My tone was clinical. Flat. Controlled.
“I already did it this morning,” she replied, without judgment.
I nodded and kept going. Quinn sat near the far end of the table, slouched in his chair, arms crossed. His posture told me more than any of his biometrics. His cortisol had spiked again. The sleep numbers were trash. He was overtraining, overstimulated, and still pretending he could handle it.
“Quinn,” I said, still not looking directly at him. “You’re not logging your sleep. I want a full recovery log by Friday. Food, hydration, screen time, hours in bed.”
He rubbed the side of his face and muttered, “Seriously?”
“Yes,” I said. My tone didn’t waver. “And no caffeine after noon. That includes those powdered drinks you hide in your locker.”
That got a small reaction. A shift in his shoulders. A flicker of acknowledgment. But no argument.
I checked off his name and moved to the next entry. I ran the slides fast. Too fast. I knew it, but I didn’t care. I was trying to get through it without falling apart.
Booth raised a brow. “That’s it?”
“Yes,” I said, closing the dashboard. “The rest is stable. No new red flags.”
No one pushed back, but I felt the pause.
Mac leaned back in his chair. His arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes locked on me. “Update on James?”
My stomach clenched. I didn’t flinch.
“He’s scheduled for a neuro screen at noon. I sent his labs to Cardiology yesterday. Referral to EP was processed this morning. We’re expecting confirmation within forty-eight hours.”
Mac didn’t say anything. His silence was weighty in a way that made my palms sweat. I didn’t need him to spell it out. I knew what this meant for Oliver, and I knew he suspected more than he was letting on.
I shut down the projector and gathered my tablet. The room emptied slowly, voices low, the energy heavy.
Ivy didn’t leave.
