Epilogue
PARKER – THREE YEARS LATER
The ball hits my hands—and drops.
Not a bad throw. Not wind. Not sweat.
Just me, a professional wide receiver not being able to catch a damn football.
I stare down at the grass like it personally betrayed me, my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with conditioning and everything to do with fear. The kind that doesn’t hit all at once but creeps in, quiet and relentless.
Not the awkward kind. The heavier kind.
Matt doesn’t react. He never does when it matters. Just bends, picks up the ball, and hands it back to his kid. “Again.”
My jaw tightens.
He rears back and throws it to me.
Same thing. My timing’s off. My hands don’t trust what my eyes already know. Something I never had to think about before.
I step back, drag my hands down my face. I mutter, “Need water.”
Matt studies me like he’s watching film. Doesn’t push. He never does. Always positive and calm, but I can see the worry lines stretching across his forehead.
“Again, Daddy!” my nephew shouts.
Matt grins. “All right, all right. Last one. Then it’s bath time.”
I walk to the patio, running my hands through my hair. My body feels fine. Strong. Fast. Healthy. I’ve passed every physical, every drill, every metric the Austin Armadillos care about.
But lately, when it matters most, when instinct should take over—I hesitate.
That half-second is everything in this league.
Noelle appears beside me, carrying a tray of lemonade like this is just another late summer evening and not the slow unraveling of my career. She searches my face the way she always does, like she’s reading a story no one else notices.
“You want to talk?” she asks gently.
I exhale. “I’ve talked to everyone. Dad, J.D., Greyson. Matt. Even Witt.” My family hasn’t been able to help.
“And?”
“Everyone keeps asking if I’m overthinking.” I swallow. “I don’t think I am. I think something’s wrong.”
She doesn’t dismiss my opinion. That’s her gift.
Before she can say anything, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sutton: Call me.
Sutton’s the general manager of the team and my sister-in-law, so I step away and call. “What’s up?”
“We made you an appointment,” Sutton says, brisk but kind. “Sports psychologist. Tomorrow at ten.”
My stomach drops. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t ask,” she finishes. “But you didn’t have to. This isn’t punishment. It’s support.”
I glance back at the yard. Matt has his arm around my nephew, his other hand steadying his kid’s tiny throw. Just like Dad did with me.
“Okay,” I say finally.
“Good. You’ll get a text.”
The call ends. A second later, my phone buzzes again.
ANNA MORROW, PSYD — APPOINTMENT CONFIRMED
Tomorrow | 10:00 AM
I walk back toward Noelle, already annoyed at myself for the tension climbing my spine. For somehow getting into this situation where I need help.
“Who was it?” she asks.
“Sutton set up an appointment with a… sports psychologist.”
Noelle tilts her head. “Who?”
“Anna Morrow.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’ what?” I ask, hiding my fear in a glass of lemonade.
“I know her,” Noelle says. “From work. A lot of guys swear by her. Say she helped them through career-ending stuff.”
Great. She helps desperate players.
I barely sleep through the night. Nervous about my career. Afraid of being mocked. More afraid of a doctor digging around in my head. An O’Ryan should be able to fix it themselves. I mean it’s fucking football—my family’s legacy.
The next morning, I sit in my truck outside her office, gripping the steering wheel like it might keep me from bolting.
This is stupid.
I don’t need this.
Still, I go in.
The waiting room is quiet. Too clean. Too calm.
“Parker O’Ryan?”
I look up. The doctor’s gaze locks on mine.
Recognition hits.
Annika stands in the doorway with a tablet tucked to her chest, hair pulled back, posture controlled. Same warm eyes. Same closed-off calm that always felt like a challenge.
My college tutor.
Who hates me with a passion.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble under my breath.
Her lips press together. “I could say the same.” Then she locks back into professional mode. “Come on back.”
I follow her down the hall into an office that looks intentionally neutral—no sports posters, no motivational crap. Just space. Silence.
I stay standing.
She notices. “Have a seat.”
“I’m good.”
Her eyebrow arches. “You’re here because you’re not.”
She settles across from me with a tablet balanced on her knee. “Before we start—this is confidential.”
I’m sitting across from Annika once again. She never bought my bullshit in college, and although I passed the class, she didn’t make it easy on me.
“I’m not here to relive senior year tutoring,” I say.
Her jaw tightens. “You always reduce things when you’re uncomfortable.”
“And you always psychoanalyze when someone disagrees with you.”
Her eyes flash. “I was right about you back then.”
“And you were annoying,” I shoot back. “Always acting like you had me figured out.” My eyes daring her to kick me out.
She exhales slowly. “You didn’t make it difficult.”
I scoff. “I showed up.”
“Late.”
“I passed.”
“Barely.”
“I went pro.” I twist my lips while strumming my fingers on my knee.
“And yet,” she says evenly, “you’re sitting in my office.”
Silence slams between us.
She studies me, then asks calmly, “Why are you here, Parker? The Armadillos made the appointment and wanted me to go in blind without any preconceived notions of what you need.”
Something snaps.
I stand so fast the chair scrapes loudly across the floor.
“Forget it,” I growl. “This was a mistake.” I head for the door, anger burning hot in my chest—not at her, not really, but at the fact that she sees me too clearly.
I yank the door open.
“Parker.”
I don’t stop.
The door slams behind me, echoing down the hall. “Run if you want,” she calls after me, her voice sharp and steady. “But you’ll be back.”
I pause, fist clenched at my side.
“You can’t stand not knowing why you’re stuck,” she continues. “And you hate even more that it might mean you’re not automatically better than your brothers.”
Well, there goes her professionalism.
Her accusation hits hard. My feet stutter as I walk out, letting the truth follow me all the way back to my SUV.
She’s right.
I’ll be back.
Thank you for reading Forbidden Play, a love story very dear to me.