Against the boards

Sloane pov Sloane had been back at Blackridge for exactly three minutes when she started wondering if coming back had been the stupidest decision she'd ever made. “You look pale. Are you sleeping?” “I’m fine, Mom.” “You said that in the airport too.” Sloane kept her eyes on the window, watching the trees blur into long green streaks along the highway. Blackridge was forty minutes out now. She could feel it in her chest, that tight, humming pressure, like her body already knew what her mind was trying to avoid. “I just don’t understand why you had to pick this school.” “Best sports psych program in the state, Mom. You know that.” Her mother didn’t answer that one. She didn’t have to. The car took the exit for campus, and the trees opened up into stone buildings and banners that read WELCOME BACK, BLACKRIDGE HAWKS in navy and silver. Sloane’s mother pulled into the visitor lot outside the athletics building and put the car in park. For a second, neither of them said anything. The engine ticked as it cooled. “Call me tonight,” her mother said. “I will.” Sloane grabbed her bag from the backseat before her mother could find a new angle, and the August heat hit her the second her feet touched pavement, thick and humid. Somewhere past the building, a horn blared twice, short and sharp, some coach’s whistle answering it a second later. The sound went straight through her. She used to know that rhythm by heart. Two horns meant line change. Three meant something had gone wrong. She had told Dr. Hart she’d arrive early, before the team’s first meeting, so she’d have time to find the office and get her bearings. She was ten minutes late. She’d sat in the visitor lot longer than she meant to. The athletics building smelled exactly the way she remembered. Rubber, bleach, and something colder underneath it. She followed the signs toward the team meeting room, her footsteps too loud in the empty hallway, and heard voices before she reached the door. Dr. Hart’s voice, first. Calm, clipped, the voice of someone used to being listened to. “—which is why I’ve arranged for a performance assistant to sit in on evaluations this season. She’ll be observing training, tracking patterns, and reporting to me directly.” A pause. “Her name is Sloane Mercer.” Sloane stopped outside the door. She had not expected her name to be the one to announce her. She had pictured slipping in quietly, finding a seat at the back, being just another face before anyone had a reason to look twice. Instead, twenty pairs of eyes were about to turn toward an empty doorway at the exact moment she walked through it. There was no version of this where she got to ease in. She stepped inside. The room was mid-sized, rows of folding chairs facing a whiteboard, players in team gear sprawled across them in various states of attention. Dr. Hart stood at the front, blazer sharp against the sea of navy hoodies, and turned toward the door with the easy expectancy of someone who had just said a name and expected a person to appear. “Ah. There she is.” Every head in the room turned. Sloane found him immediately. Front row, chair tipped back on two legs, arms crossed. She hadn’t planned on finding him first. Her eyes just went there, the way water finds the lowest point in a room, some old instinct she’d never managed to retrain. Jace’s chair came down onto all four legs, slow, deliberate, like he needed a second to be sure of what he was looking at. “Sloane,” Dr. Hart said, gesturing her forward, entirely unaware she’d just detonated something, “come in, come in. I was just telling the team about your role this season.” Sloane made herself walk to the front of the room. Made herself keep her expression easy, professional, the face she’d practiced for exactly this kind of moment, though she had never once pictured it would be Jace’s face waiting for her when she arrived. “This is Sloane Mercer,” Dr. Hart continued, to the room. “Senior, sports psych program. She’ll be working directly under me this season, observing training and assisting with performance evaluations. I expect everyone to treat her with respect. Her being a student does not make her observations optional.” A few players exchanged glances. Someone near the back murmured something Sloane didn’t catch. Jace didn’t move. He watched her with an expression she recognized and hated recognizing, the exact stillness he used to get right before he said something he couldn’t take back. “Any questions?” Dr. Hart said, already turning back to her clipboard, already moving on, “can go to Sloane or to me directly.” “I have one,” Jace said. Dr. Hart glanced up. “Go ahead.” Jace’s eyes didn’t leave Sloane’s face. “Does the program know who her family is?” The room went very quiet. Dr. Hart’s expression flickered, some private recalibration happening behind her eyes, and Sloane felt the entire weight of twenty strangers waiting to find out what that question meant. “I know exactly who Sloane is,” Dr. Hart said evenly. “That’s not up for discussion. Is there an actual question about her role?” Jace held her gaze a second longer. “No,” he said. “I think I understand her role fine.” Sloane held his gaze. “Good.” The word came out steadier than she felt. Jace's jaw tightened. Dr. Hart looked between them, finally beginning to understand that the tension in the room had nothing to do with Sloane's qualifications. “Right. Since we're all apparently done asking irrelevant questions, we can move on.” A few players shifted in their seats. Sloane took the empty chair near the back and sat down, placing her clipboard on her lap. She could feel Jace looking at her. She refused to look back. Dr. Hart started talking about the team's performance data, but Sloane barely heard the first few minutes. Her pulse was too loud. She had spent three years imagining this moment in a hundred different ways. In some versions, Jace ignored her. In others, he walked away. She had never imagined him looking at her like she was a problem someone had forgotten to solve. “Mercer.” Sloane blinked. Dr. Hart was watching her. “Sorry.” “I asked if you had anything to add.” Sloane glanced at the screen. A chart showing the team's performance trends filled the wall behind Dr. Hart. Their numbers had been dropping for months. She sat up. “Your third-period performance is worse than the first two.” The room went quiet again. Dr. Hart nodded. “We've noticed.” “No.” Sloane looked at the chart. “You've noticed the result. I'm talking about the pattern.” Jace leaned back in his chair. Here we go. Sloane could practically hear the thought. She pointed to the screen. “Your defensive errors spike after the first major shift in momentum. You stop playing the game in front of you and start trying to correct the last one.” One of the players frowned. “So we're overthinking?” “Some of you are.” “And the rest?” Sloane's eyes moved to Jace. “The rest are following your captain.” Silence. Jace slowly lowered his chair onto all four legs. Dr. Hart's expression sharpened with interest. “Care to explain?” Jace asked. Sloane looked at him. His eyes were the same. That was the worst part. “Your team keeps making the same mistake,” she said. “They stop playing to win and start playing not to lose.” Jace smiled. It was cold enough to make the room feel smaller. “And you figured all that out in one afternoon?” “No.” Sloane closed her clipboard. “I figured it out in ten minutes.” For the first time, something shifted in Jace's expression. Not anger. Something sharper. Dr. Hart looked at the clock. “Good. Since everyone seems awake now, we'll start the evaluation.” Sloane's stomach tightened. Jace kept watching her. And suddenly, three years didn't feel like time at all.