Head Play (The O’Ryan Family #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

ANNIKA

Nothing to be nervous about, right?

I’m certain in my knowledge of synaptic transmission, the sliding filament theory and the way the amygdala reacts to stressors, when your brain feels it’s being threatened.

The way I sometimes feel when it comes to Parker O’Ryan.

The body tells the truth long before the mouth does. If it ever does.

I chose this path because I need to understand both physiology and psychology.

Mind before muscle.

Waiting in the campus library, I sit at a long walnut table inlaid with our university mascot, a longhorn. My fingers trace over the sharp corners of the horns before I open my textbook to the chapter, Neuromuscular Structure & Function.

I’m ready.

Highlighters lined up.

Flashcards stacked.

Parker’s quiz, face down.

Who isn’t ready? Who isn’t here?

Parker, of course.

But on the field, his entire body is more than potential.

Perfectly timed reactions.

Only milliseconds to make a decision.

Adrenaline flooding the muscle fibers.

Parker thinks all his talent is instinctual, but there is science behind it. And I want to understand how it all fits together to make people successful in sports. Why do some athletes rise under pressure and others fall apart?

Why fear slows reaction time. Why visualization rewires the brain’s pathways.

I want to study the brain until I can map resilience, which will require more years of school. Maybe more to become a PhD in Psychology.

Will it be worth it?

Without a doubt.

My phone vibrates on the table with a message.

Parker: Be there in two. Don’t start without me.

Does he think I’m tutoring myself? I couldn’t start without him if I tried. He’s always late and I’m tired of him treating my time like it’s worthless.

Laughter floats up the stairwell—bright, breathless, and feminine.

I don’t look up, even though I want to, instead, I let out a heavy exhale as I hear Parker’s deep voice. And I can almost see him smiling down at whoever he’s with. I underline a phrase on my notebook with my purple flair pen before lifting my gaze.

And there he is, Parker O’Ryan, Texas playoff hero.

His burnt orange jersey went flying through the air, as he stretched out to catch the overthrown ball.

Touchdown.

Playoff hero.

And this campus can’t get enough of him.

Someone painted a mural of him at a local veterans’ lodge.

A local diner named a sandwich after him and an enormous banner that must be three stories high hangs on the side of this library, showcasing his athletic prowess and the veins in his arms and the dimples framing his face.

Stop.

Two girls orbit him like satellites, except much closer. One holds on to his arm while the other has her hand resting on his chest like she’s checking his pulse.

I’m sure it’s steady.

He doesn’t seem to rattle and just takes everything in stride.

That’s what fascinates me.

It’s also what annoys me.

Only half listening, because I’m caught up in my own thoughts, I hear, “…and when you got sandwiched by those two Raiders, I thought you were going to die.”

“It’ll take more than that to make me leave the game. I won the game didn’t I?” He rolls a chuckle in the back of his throat.

Yes. He did.

It’s one of the reasons I agreed to tutor him.

He’s the perfect guy.

In a completely scientific way.

His eyes lift from theirs to mine.

And something in my own nervous system misfires.

What? Why?

“This is ridiculous,” I mumble. This is just a chemical response of dopamine being released. Nothing more. He’s a good-looking guy, but also full of himself.

He extricates himself from the women hanging on him, “My tutor’s here. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“I can be your tutor,” the strawberry blonde says as she pushes out her pouty lips and looks up at him with puppy dog eyes.

Parker smiles, “Sorry. I don’t need tutoring in that department. Need to pass physiology.”

His gaze stays locked on mine as he walks towards me.

I straighten in my chair. Damn the human body is so freaking predictable.

Heart rate increases.

Breathing changes.

Pupils dilate.

I push the hatred for him back to the forefront, refusing to let my body react to Parker O’Ryan in that way.

He approaches the table while his groupies assess me and assume I’m no threat.

Believe me, I have no interest in Parker O’Ryan. I cross my arms and give them nothing and they finally scamper back down the steps.

Keeping my eyes on Parker, I say coolly, “Well, I guess congratulations are in order.”

“On?” He asks as he drops into the chair across from me, long legs extending under the table.

“Not collapsing under playoff pressure.”

He flashes me his dimples. “You watched.”

“Impossible not to. I’m a Texas girl.”

Not. But he doesn’t need to know that.

I was there. I was in the student section in the end zone where he caught the game-winning touchdown.

Why? My reasoning was to see first-hand how the team handled it.

But it may have been to see how this guy who is well spoken, and obviously smart, performs on the field when he can’t seem to understand why he’s able to do what he does.

“Am I dreaming or is Annika impressed?” The corner of his lips twitch as he asks.

“I’m impressed by your adrenal regulation.”

He blinks and his eyes widen. “My what?”

“Your fight or flight response mechanism. It didn’t override your motor coordination.” My eyes widen as I get more excited.

Parker throws his head back, laughing way too loud, “You’re saying I don’t panic.”

“I’m saying your amygdala didn’t sabotage you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

I lean my elbows on the table. “You would know if you knew the definitions, which we’re going over in just a minute. But it’s data.”

His eyes narrow. “You analyze me a lot.”

It’s not a question and that’s the dangerous part. Because he fascinates me when he shouldn’t.

His gaze locks as if he has me right where he wants me.

“You give me plenty of data.”

His eyes flicker with interest. “Alright smarty pants. What are we doing today?”

“Action potentials.”

The groan that comes from him makes my thighs squeeze, so deep and raw. “Kill me now.”

“You probably don’t remember what they are.” My shoulders lift almost to my ears before I let them fall. “Don’t you want to know the signals that tell your muscles how fast you need to run to catch the ball?”

“You saw me. I know how to catch.”

“You know how to perform. That’s different.” I admit that I roll my eyes just a little.

And there it is. The shift.

He sits up straight. “You think I just coast.”

“I think you rely on instinct.”

Quirking his left brow he asks, “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It’s unreliable.”

He peers hard into my eyes, unflinching. “Instinct and talent just won us a playoff game.”

“Discipline sustains a career. There are fifty-two men on the roster all thinking they’ll go pro, but only one percent will meet that goal. But you don’t have to worry. You have the O’Ryan name, but do you have the discipline?”

It’s so quiet you can hear people reading—in their head. He strums his long, tanned fingers on his notebook and twists his lips and says, “So you don’t like football.”

“I don’t like wasted potential.”

“Why do you always say that?” he mutters.

“Because it’s true,” I blurt out louder than I should when students are trying to study. “You football players think of one thing only… going pro.”

He snaps his legs back and lurches forward. The veins in his neck pop reminding me of what I escaped. “You don’t know me.”

I whisper-shout, “I know you skip your assignments. And studying comes last.”

“I have to prioritize my time.”

“You prioritize what gives you attention,” I snarl and look away. My voice betrays me.

He freezes. “Careful,” he says.

I know I shouldn’t push but something about the girls, the laughter and the ease in which the world wraps around him. It scratches at something ugly and painful inside me.

My lips tighten and through gritted teeth, I say, “I don’t tutor ego. I tutor effort, which you’re not giving.”

His nostrils flare. He looks like he hates me as much as I hate him. He’s an egomaniac and thinks he’s the only person at this table who’s an athlete.

“Ego? That’s what you think this is.”

“Well, you walked in here like it was an afterthought and optional.”

“It is optional.”

My stomach tightens. He holds the power.

I want to think he needs me. That somebody needs me, but he doesn’t. So, what do I do when I feel abandoned? Lash out.

“Well, then you don’t need a tutor.” I push back my chair, recklessly gathering my books and pens.

He stands and reaches across the desk for my arm. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you implied.” I twitch until he releases my arm from his hand.

“Annika—”

“Just open your book.”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he mumbles, “You’re jealous of the girls, and where did you get that purple shirt?”

“Ha.” My spine stiffens. “Of course, you would think it’s about them and for your information, it’s my boyfriend’s.”

“It sure feels like it is. So, your boyfriend goes to school on the other side of town?”

“No. Yes. I’m not sharing my personal life, and I have no reason to care who you entertain or how many times you…”

“Then why does it seem like you’re about to throw that textbook at my head?”

Red welts crawl up my skin and heat flashes into my face. “Because you treat studying like a joke.”

“No, it’s because you think I am a joke.” He sits back down.

I snap, “No, I think you hide behind one.”

One flicker of a flame could cause an explosion because the air is so heavy.

“You don’t know what I hide,” he snaps back.

And for the first time in my presence, there’s no grin adorning Parker’s face.

No charm. Just something raw.

I should take it as the time to pull back, instead I say, “Prove it.”

He stares right through me.

“Prove what? I think the better question is what are you trying to prove? That you’re a superior student? Because I’ll have you know except for this class, I have straight A’s.”

“In what, underwater basketweaving?” I’m being snarky but he brings out the worst in me.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re never prepared.”

His throat bobs and his jaw clenches. “God you’re so…”

I cut him off. “Disciplined?”

“Cold.”

That one word hits harder than it should. Cold. Maybe I am.

I slam my notebook against the table. “We’re done.”

“Are you serious? You’re quitting. Well, I’ll tell you that my parents didn’t raise a quitter. Your parents taught you to give up when you’re faced with an obstacle.”

He has no idea.

“I don’t need to tutor people who don’t respect my time.”

He folds his arms over his chest and the veins in forearms bulge to absolute perfection. Most girls would be salivating. Not me.

“I was twenty-three minutes late.”

“You’re always late.”

“Because I have practice,” he says, raising his voice. “But you said this was the only time that worked for you.”

“And I don’t have to lower my standards. My time is valuable. I work as much as you practice.”

A couple of students glance our way, hoping the show continues so they can gossip about the football star and the geeky girl.

“Got it. You think you’re better than me.”

“Not better, but I work harder.”

The words hang between us. Sharp. Final.

“You couldn’t make it through one of my workouts, much less practice. You have no clue what a D1 athlete’s life is like.”

“I know you had time to let two girls distract you from being on time. Like the whole world revolves around you.”

He drops his head then raises it with what seems like a sympathetic smile. Parker lowers his voice. “I knew this was about the girls. You hate it that I don’t have to grind to get attention from the opposite sex.”

Something cracks inside me, but he’ll never hear me admit it.

“Since I know you’re a professional know-it-all, you should know I grind every day.” His voice gets even softer. “Every day.”

“Yeah, on the field.”

“Everywhere.”

Sighing, I shake my head. “I’m done Parker.” His name sounds different when I say it. Almost sad that I won’t see him anymore.

He studies me for an extra beat. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

He steps around the table into my personal space. Too close for comfort. I’m not blind. He’s hotter than Vegas in the summer.

“You don’t think I’m taking this seriously?” he says more like a question.

“I don’t think you’ve ever had to work hard for anything. Never had anything you loved ripped away from you. That’s what I think.” I pop my hip just to be extra.

His eyes narrow and his eyes flicker with something that I can’t put my finger on.

No retort.

No sarcasm.

Good.

Finally, he says, “I’ll find another tutor.”

“Good.”

But my chest closes in like I just took a wrong turn and don’t know how to get back.

“I don’t need someone psychoanalyzing me anyway.” He picks up his backpack, slings it over his shoulder and walks away without hesitation. Without looking back.