Chapter 4
FOUR
ANNIKA
“Uh… Anna?”
I pause in the hallway outside my office, tablet tucked into my chest, pen balanced between my fingers like a weapon. My notes are my go-to. I’ve always loved to study. Find patterns.
The clinic is quiet in that medical office way—cream walls, soft blue-gray carpet, soothing prints on the walls of landscapes and nature that look like they were chosen by someone who thinks nature can solve everything.
It can’t. Not the things that matter anyway.
Can it soothe you? Absolutely. When you need a good cry go sit by a stream and let the tears fall.
Can it fix you? No.
Jenna, my receptionist, clears her throat as she leans around her monitor with an expression that says she’s been dying to ask me something.
“Yes?” I ask, already knowing I’m going to regret it. She has that twinkle in her eye that spells trouble.
She lowers her voice dramatically, even though no one is in the office or the waiting room. “Parker O’Ryan is on the schedule today.”
“And?”
Jenna’s eyes widen. “Based on the way he slammed the door, and you yelled after him, you two must have a history.” She draws out the word history as she wiggles her eyebrows.
I let my lids fall shut for a long, patient second. “Jenna,” I warn.
“What? I’m just curious.”
“It’s fine. We do have a history of him being late and thinking the rules don’t apply to him.”
“So did you ever… you know? It might be considered a conflict of interest,” she asks with a slight lift of her chin.
“No.” It comes out sharp.
“So did you date?”
“No,” I repeat, even harsher, I hate that Parker is already annoying me and he isn’t even here. I should refer him somewhere else.
Jenna raises her hands. “Okay, okay. I just assumed…”
“That’s the problem. People assume and that’s how rumors don’t die.”
Her lips press together and I hate that I can see she’s fighting a smile.
“So, if you didn’t date. Didn’t have sex. What did you do? Because that man looked like he was ready to throw his career into a dumpster on his way out a couple of days ago.”
On a slow exhale, I come out with it. “I was his tutor in college.”
“Oh my God.” Jenna’s face lights up like I just handed her a private lap dance with Parker. “In what? Football?”
I deadpan. Is she serious? “Sure Jenna, I taught an O’Ryan how to throw a spiral.”
“Ok, my next guess is math.”
“Physiology.”
She shoots me a broad, knowing smile. “Interesting. How the mind and body work together.”
I know what she means by her words, but her tone sounds salacious.
She starts again, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are you sure he didn’t tutor you?”
“Tutor me?” I blink.
“Like in the bedroom?” She asks, without even a hint of embarrassment showing on her face.
I stare back and tighten my grip on my work tablet.
“I’m just saying… he’s a famous Texan with a body that… knows how to move. Did you see the catch he made to win the playoff game a few years ago? I’m still getting videos on my feed of it.”
She’s an avid Texas football fan and I remember it too but just shake my head.
“Come on, Anna. Something must have happened between you two. He stormed out leaving a trail of I-hate-you-but-want-in-your-pants-vibes.”
I lean closer, voice calm but lethal. “We had a professional relationship then, and if he shows today, that will not change. And if I ever hear you say the words tutor me and Parker in the same sentence, I’ll file a formal complaint with myself about your behavior.”
“Okay, so you’re denying sleeping with him. But you’re open to counseling him. Got it. I’ll behave,” Jenna says, laughing under her breath. “His appointment is at three.”
“If he shows.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
I say much too quickly, “Then someone from the waiting list will get his slot. Someone that wants help and will listen.”
“I think you want to help him.”
“The integrity of this clinic and having word of mouth referrals is what I care about.”
“I’m sure you do,” she murmurs. “But what you need to come to terms with is… you and Mr. O’Ryan have enough unresolved tension that it could power ten city blocks.”
Jenna grins.
I glare and walk away before I say something that will add fuel to the fire or end up in clinic folklore forever.
Inside my office, I focus on the chair across from mine.
Neutral. That’s what I aimed for when I decorated this space.
Just clean lines, calming colors, and enough distance between the patient and myself that no one feels trapped.
I open the frosted glass door behind me.
My actual office with my desk and where my patient’s files are locked away.
After I unload the contents of my arms, I sign into the computer, reviewing my schedule.
10:00am –Felicity, professional bowler
11:15am – Bobby, college golfer
1:00pm – Jamal, college basketball player
2:00pm – Candace, professional hockey player
God, why did I take on a female hockey player? I wasn’t great but what if she recognizes me?
3:00pm – Parker, professional football player
When Parker rescheduled, I moved my appointments after him to a different day. Why? It will take all my mental fortitude to get him on board. And I may need a drink after. A big, tall glass of wine.
The day flies by. My patients are all having breakthroughs today. Seeing a flash of confidence come back makes my day. Candace hugged me when she left.
I check the clock. 2:55pm. Will he be on time or show up fifteen minutes late? Part of me hopes he doesn’t show. The professional part of me hopes he does.
I go into my office and start typing in my notes from my visit with Candace, when Jenna calls on the speaker. Her voice is unusually cheerful. “Your three o’clock is here. Are you ready for me to lead him back? Or should I call security?” Jenna swallows a chuckle.
“Bring him back.” From behind the frosted glass, I see a shadowy figure sit down and thank Jenna. She giggles like a schoolgirl. I take a deep breath and walk into the patient room.
Parker O’Ryan sitting in that chair isn’t just a client.
He’s a memory.
A specific kind of irritation from my past—burnt orange jerseys, campus murals, girls hanging onto him like he’s their oxygen. And his smile… his stupid infuriating smile that makes people forget he was human. Maybe even me.
Back then he treated my time like it was a suggestion. Deciding to flirt with half of the campus instead of being on time. He showed up late. Talked back. Made excuses.
But still, he listened when it mattered. Once we got past the initial moments of studying.
He seemed arrogant and entitled. But I also don’t think he was as shallow as he made it appear, or if I was jealous.
I saw him in class for the following two weeks of school and he was up front, taking notes, asking questions, determined to prove me wrong, and the professor loved every minute of it.
But now we’re here, years later in my office with his career unraveling. I did a little digging to see if any articles had been written about his career. Sure enough, there are reports that suddenly, he can’t catch a ball.
My business cards sit on the table beside him—my name carefully constructed, a sanitized professional identity.
Anna Morrow, CMPC
Anna.
Not Annika.
No longer the girl that tutored him. Not the girl who pretended she felt nothing when he looked at her like she was a puzzle.
I changed my name for a reason.
So people wouldn’t search.
So people wouldn’t connect the dots.
So I could build something separate from my past.
We stare at each other for a beat. “You came back,” I say in a gentler voice than intended.
And for some reason, relief slips through me before I can stop it.
Like part of me wanted him to choose me after all.
His mouth twists, “Didn’t have a choice.”
He’s not wearing practice gear. Jeans. A long-sleeve shirt. His hair holds a slight trace of water like he’s freshly showered and didn’t bother with anything but getting here on time. At least I’d like to think that’s why.
“You always have a choice.”
“Not when your whole family is watching and half the team,” he huffs out a half-laugh.
He wears the weight of the O’Ryan family legacy like armor. A place to start.
“Parker, you made a conscious choice to be here on time. All of life is choices. Water or milkshake. Fried chicken or grilled. Go out and party or stay home to watch Alone.”
He nods his head as if to say, how do we get started?
He looks around the room. His eyes land on my business card but lets the quiet stretch out. His face is tight, his jaw holding firm when he asks, “You always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Wait me out.”
“Patience is a skill,” I reply calmly.
Now his jaw flexes like I’ve offended him.
I pick up my tablet and notebook. “Before we start, we need to address what happened.”
“What happened is that you felt the need to get in some more jabs and I left.” His back straightens making him even taller and intimidating.
“You stormed out.”
“Same thing,” he scoffs.
“It’s not the same thing,” I say keeping my tone even, steady. “Walking out is a choice to avoid a uncomfortable situation.”
He laces his fingers together behind his neck. “Here we go.”
“Parker, this isn’t a situation where avoidance will help you. Avoidance creates—”
His gaze hardens. “I don’t need you to explain what avoidance is. I graduated with a 3.6 GPA.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “You demonstrate it beautifully.” Sarcasm drips from my tone.
He opens his mouth only to close it again. Probably wanting to argue but holds back.
Good.
I open my notebook. “Here are the rules.”
His eyebrows lift. “Rules?”
I nod.
“You and your rules.” He gives out a humorless laugh.
“You came to me for help and if you want my help, you’ll agree to my rules.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you leave.” I hold his eyes on mine. “But if you walk out again, I’ll drop you as a client.”
The air shifts as his eyes flash. “You can’t do that.”
“Can and will. My time is valuable. Four-hundred dollars an hour to be exact. And I want to help people.”
He stands abruptly and I think here we go again. He struggles when emotions get involved. He walks to the frosted glass door then turns to me. “So, you get to say whatever you want, push whatever buttons you want, and I’m supposed to sit here and take it?”
“I don’t push buttons. I ask questions. You push your own buttons when you don’t like the answers.” I sigh. “If you want me to refer you to someone else, I will.”
His mouth twitches like he knows I’m right.
“Why are you even doing this?” He snaps.
“Because the Armadillos organization thinks I can help you, like I help other athletes. But I understand if you don’t trust me playing with your head.
” I pause. “When the appointment was scheduled, I admit, I looked up and found some articles about how you haven’t been able to catch the ball this year like you have in the past.”
He quickly says, “I can catch.”
“Okay, then why are you here?”
His throat works, swallowing his words.
Pride.
Fear.
The truth.
He looks away before he decides to sit again.
He’s staying. That’s progress.
For a second, he’s not cocky or angry. Just a man staring at the possibility of losing the thing he loves most.
“It’s happening again.”
Again?
That one word changes everything. It tells me this isn’t new. Maybe he was able to hide it before. It’s resurfacing for a reason. And a part of me wants to know what else he’s carrying besides trying to follow in his family’s legacy.
“Tell me what again means.”
He doesn’t look at me, preferring to fixate on the wheatfield painting. “It means I’m fine one minute and the next I’m not.”
I write comes and goes on my notepad.
“Define not.”
A sharp laugh laced with fear escapes his throat. “Not. Not catching the ball. Not trusting my hands. Not trusting my brain. It’s like my instincts are gone.”
I nod slow and empathetic, understanding how he feels. “Okay.”
His brows furrow together and the fear in his eyes shows through. “That’s it? You’re just going to say okay?”
“Yes. Panic doesn’t help.”
“You’re so…”
“Cold?” I supply, remembering that one word that stung for a long time.
His mouth closes and the flicker of a memory passes between us—an echo of the library three years ago. The way his word slapped me in the face.
He lets out a heavy breath. “Yeah.”
I’ve learned to let things sink in and not to react out of emotion. “Parker, I’m not cold. I’m controlled. There’s a difference.”
He scoffs in disbelief. “Same thing.”
“No, it’s not. Cold is absence. Control is a choice.”
He’s searching for a way to argue the point but can’t quite find the right angle.
“Thanks for being on time. That was a choice. I’m not your adversary. We’re here to fix your performance issues.”
He chews on his full bottom lip, crossing his arms over his chest making sure I know his armor is on and he’s protected. “And you think you can. Fix me.”
“I know I can if we work together.”
“Arrogant.”
I almost smile. “You confuse arrogance and confidence. Arrogance is pretending there’s no problem.”
“What’s my problem?” he jabs.
“Tell me about the drop?”
“The drop?” He raises a quizzical brow.
“Yes, walk me through it like it’s a film session.”
“I push off the line of scrimmage, run my route, hand up, eyes see the ball into my hands. Except the last part. It’s hitting my fingertips like I’m a half second late.”
“And then?
“And then…” his voice falters, teetering on the edge. “It’s like my hands don’t trust what my eyes see.”
There it is. The disconnect.
Sensory information versus motor response.
Not physical.
Not a big injury.
Fear.
“Does it only happen during in-game situations? Like when you’re either playing a game or scrimmage?”
His chin falls to his chest as he shakes his head no. “Anytime. Not every time, but too many times. It happened while I was playing catch with my nephew. A toddler rearing back and throwing the ball two miles per hour and I still couldn’t keep my grip on a tiny ball.”
This is good. He’s opening up to me. Good. I scratch out a few more notes.
“Can you recall when it started?”
He hesitates, “Recently.”
“That’s vague.”
“I don’t remember.”
That sounds like a lie. Or avoidance.
Or it could be a protective mechanism. The memory gets fuzzy when fear is involved. I go through possible reasons when I should be listening and watching his body language for clues.
I crank my head to the side. “Your body remembers even when you don’t.”
“Here we go again.” Frustration smothers every word.
“Your body is telling you something. We just need to translate it.”
He laughs just enough for his dimples to frame his mouth and a warm feeling travels through me. Seeing him smile despite the fact his mind and body are disconnected. He studies me, eyes narrowing and for a second I see the Parker from college. The one who seemed to be wondering what I was thinking.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“Just thinking you’re still bossy.”
“And you’re still resistant,” I counter. “Do you want help or not?”
“I want my hands back.”
The quiver in his voice shows me he’s scared and his honesty hits me harder than it should.