Chapter 3
THREE
PARKER - THREE YEARS LATER
The ball hits my hands—and drops.
Not a bad throw. No wind. Not sweat.
Just me, a professional wide receiver not being able to catch a damn football in the backyard.
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, offensive coordinator for the Austin Armadillos, and my brother-in-law, doesn’t react. He never does when it matters. Just bends, picks up the ball, and hands it back to his toddler. “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, Kane 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 professional football.
My sister, Noelle appears beside me, carrying a tray of lemonade like this is just another late October 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.”
No one’s been able to get to the root of the problem and I can’t seem to either.
“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 Noelle’s gift. Should I go to a neurologist? I’ve been reading way too much and I keep finding articles about tumors pressing on parts of your brain, inhibiting the time it takes for your brain to tell your body what to do.
Cancer?
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 Performance Coach. 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 don’t have a concussion and honestly I’m afraid to ask for an MRI. 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, CMPC — 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 thinks I’m mental. She set up an appointment with someone to play with my head.”
Noelle tilts her head with a smirk on her face. “Who?”
“Anna Morrow.”
Her brows lift just a smidge. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’ what?” I ask, hiding my fear in a glass of lemonade.
“I know of her,” Noelle says. “From work. A lot of guys swear by her. They say she helped them through career-ending stuff.”
Great. She helps desperate players. Sutton and the Armadillos organization is desperate, which means my brothers agreed with her.
“Did you know this was happening?”
“Matt may have asked how you would handle it,” she says, uneasy and squirming.
I slump down in the cushioned rocking chair, lean my head back and look up at the colors fading into each other as they blanket the Texas night sky.
“So, I’m going to be the first O’Ryan to fail. Failed at hockey. Failed at football.” The weight of that admission lies heavy on my chest. It hurts.
Noelle moves her chair in front of mine, making the sound like chalk on a blackboard. She winces, sneaking a peek at her baby girl asleep in the bassinet beside us.
“Look at me, Parker. O’Ryans don’t give up.
Did J.D. give up after his broken leg and torn ACL?
Did Greyson give up when he was traded to the Armadillos?
Did Matt give up after his transplant? No.
We all go through stuff and maybe this Anna Morrow can help get your mind right.
” She lays her hand on my knee, squeezing. “Promise me you’ll give it a chance.”
I cover her hand with mine. “What would I do without you? You’re my rock. You always have been, even when I outgrew you, you were always taking care of me.”
She breaks into an earsplitting smile. “I was practicing.”
“Being a mother?” I ask with a lump clogging my throat.
“I guess. Or maybe for this moment to make sure you know that I believe in you. You’ll conquer whatever this is.”
“Thanks. When you say it, I believe it.” I press my hands against the armrest and kiss my sister on the cheek. “I better get some rest before some shrink looks in my mind.”
“No telling what she’ll find,” she laughs.
“Yeah, maybe those fried worms you made me eat after that book came out.”
Her hands fly to her face. “Aww, I totally forgot about that. I must be persuasive.”
I grin and she wraps her arms around me.
“Love you big.”
“Love you, big. See ya.”
As I walk off, she calls out, “Call me after.”
I nod and jog around to the front and slide into my Dodge Charger. I want to believe my sister that it’s nothing to worry about, that I’m like a golfer with a case of the “yips.”
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t freaked out.
Nervous about my career, I have a difficult time sleeping through the night. Afraid of being mocked and 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 car 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. Sports magazines lay spread on every table, along with a few celebrity magazines. I check in with the receptionist, fill out eleven pages of paperwork, and give her my insurance card.
I flip through a few magazines, not reading a single article.
“Parker O’Ryan?”
I look up. The doctor’s gaze locks on mine.
Recognition hits.
Annika stands in the doorway with a black tablet tucked to her chest, hair pulled back, posture controlled. Same glaring eyes underneath her glasses. Same closed-off calm that always felt like a challenge.
My college tutor.
Who I swear 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, except for Sutton O’Ryan. You signed a release stating I could talk with her about your progress.”
“I know what I signed.”
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, quitting on me before finals.
“And 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.”
“Ha. And you were annoying,” I shoot back. “Always acting like you had me figured out.” My eyes dare her to kick me out.
She exhales, her breath stretching between us. “You didn’t make it difficult. Same old clichés. Jocks and party girls. Wasn’t much else to you.”
“Like I said back then. You don’t know me,” I scoff. “You got paid and 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. Because you need me.”
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 her words follow me all the way back to my car.
Need her?
She’s out of her damn mind.
Starting the car, I push on the clutch and change gears, peeling out of the office parking lot.
Need her?
I don’t need her.
Rubber burns as my speed climbs quickly onto the highway. All I can think about is how much I want to play football until I’m at least thirty. Hell, my brothers’ playing careers have lasted into their late thirties.
Need her?
She wishes.
A quarterback from another team went to a Buddhist temple last year to get his mind right. Did it work? He took his team to the playoffs for the first time in thirty years. Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.
But I can’t go in the middle of the season. Maybe I should try acupuncture or meditation.
Need her?
I don’t need her, but I did promise Noelle and Sutton that I would give it a chance.
As much as I hate to admit it, Annika’s right.
I’ll be back because I need her, even if I can’t stand her.