Chapter 5
FIVE
PARKER
Am I going to trust her with my career? I’m at a point where the more I’m criticized by the media, the more it happens, even from some of my own teammates for dropping the ball.
I’ve always been able to take constructive criticism.
It’s part of being a scholarship athlete or a professional, but this seems different.
Every word hits like a punch to the face.
“When we’re inside this room. It’s me and you. Confidential. I’ll tell you how to describe things. You have your hands. So don’t say I want my hands back. Instead say, I want my hands to work with my brain to catch the ball.”
She’s all about control. Over me.
This is my identity we’re talking about. I’ve always been an athlete and who am I if not an athlete? I’ve built my life around games and teammates, winning and losing. Mostly winning. It’s my identity. My family’s legacy.
“Parker, this won’t be easy but at least I’m not a three-hundred-pound football player wanting to knock you into the stands. Let’s get to work,” she says as she slides a folder to me. “These are your intake forms. You left them blank.”
My eyes flicker to the stack of questions. “I didn’t have time.”
“You had time to storm out.”
“You really don’t let anything go. Do you?”
“I don’t because patterns matter,” she states matter-of-factly.
I stare into those eyes that seem warm for the first time. Like liquid gold moving to the center of her chocolate eyes. “And you think my pattern is running away or ignoring the details?”
“I think your pattern is control. When you feel powerless you leave.”
It makes me think back to playing hockey in Michigan. I shake the thought away. “I left because you pissed me off.”
“And why did I piss you off?”
I start to speak but think better of it. I don’t want to say what goes through my mind when Annika flashes in my mind.
She taps the folder. “Start with the first question.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
I glance down.
What do you fear losing most?
I feel my throat tighten but pretend I don’t. I scribble down one word and hand it to her.
Everything.
My eyes are locked on hers. She looks at the paper, and I expect a sarcastic remark but instead she simply says, “Everything. That’s a lot to carry.”
I shrug. “You don’t know anything about what I carry.”
I’ve been telling her she doesn’t know me since college.
“I know enough to know you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Parker, I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t out of options and tried everything else. Your body is hesitating.”
My fingers curl into a fist on my knee. She doesn’t budge, just stays locked in on me. She’s good. I want to stand up and run. She must see it because she says, “Remember the rule.”
“You would really threaten to drop me?”
“It’s not a threat. It’s a boundary.” She’s calm, cool and collected.
I swallow the smartass chuckle tickling my throat. “Right, boundaries.”
“Let’s do this right and we’ll have you back to scoring playoff-winning touchdowns in no time,” she says, obviously trying to get me to stay. “No more storming out. No ego games.”
“Ego games?”
“Pretending you don’t care when we both know you do. Pretending it doesn’t matter.”
I roll it over in my mind and admit, “I care. It matters.”
It’s an admission, hanging there in silence. Bare. Vulnerable.
She keeps her face free of expression. No judgment.
My thoughts race. This isn’t just about catching. It’s about fear and my identity. Pressure and loss.
“Okay. Good. Let’s start the session with the basics. Breathing.”
I swallow a laugh. “I can breathe.”
“You’d be amazed at how many athletes forget to breathe when their amygdala is screaming.”
Why can’t doctors use words their patients can pronounce?
This time I can’t help but smile. “You love that word.”
“I do, because it’s relevant. And because it annoys you,” she says, her mouth dragging into a reluctant, fleeting almost-smile.
It’s gone quickly and the underlying tension remains. But it’s something. Then she’s all back to business. “We’re going to build a routine. A pre-catch cue. A reset. A trigger word. Something your body can anchor when fear spikes.”
Annika’s eyes glimmer. I’ve never noticed how they dance when she has an action plan. I tuck that back in my mind.
“It sounds insane.”
She admits, “It might, but it works.”
“And you can fix me?”
“I’m sure you can. I’m just here to help you access what’s already inside you.” Her voice is sure and steady. “And as you know, I believe in process. You’re not broken. You’re blocked.”
Leaning forward, I tip my hands over my nose and let out a breath. “Okay, tell me what to do.”
She doesn’t look at me like she beat me, instead, she looks at me with gratitude for believing in her. And even though I don’t want to be here letting Annika play with my head, for the first time, I’m willing to put myself on the line to keep my football career.
She flips her notebook back open, writing something down. “Okay, let’s build a reset. Think of it like a mental reboot.” She looks up for a hot second. “When the brain senses fear, the amygdala hijacks the brain.”
“How could I forget you use the word anytime you get a chance? But yes, I remember the part of your brain that ruins everything.” My voice is dry and is close to sounding disinterested.
“Or it can protect you. Depends on the situation,” she corrects, ignoring my tone.
Now her eyes are locked on mine. “When your brain thinks you’re in danger, even if you’re not, it sends signals to your body to prepare for impact.
Muscles tighten. Breathing changes. Reaction time slows. That’s when you drop the ball.”
I hear every word she’s saying. I even understand it. But for some reason, my body is focused on how she’s saying it. The way she loves what she does.
Now I understand why she took it so seriously. She was learning her craft. Same as I was learning football. So, I lean back in my chair, cross my arms and challenge her. I’ve always thought she hates to be challenged but I love seeing that fire in her eyes.
“So my brain thinks catching a ball is life threatening?” A little smirk slides across my face.
Her mouth twitches, and her eyes gleam. “No but your brain may think getting hit by a linebacker is.”
Fair.
The perfect comeback.
This time it’s her that stands, moves about the room, stopping in front of the window. The sunlight catches her hair and for a second she almost looks angelic. Almost.
“Elite athletes like you rely on automatic response. Instinct and muscle memory. But fear interrupts the chain of events,” she says as she abruptly turns back toward me. “We need to interrupt the fear.”
“How do we do that?” I ask, trying to match her enthusiasm which comes off fake.
“The cue or trigger word I mentioned earlier,” she explains. “Something short your brain can latch onto before the catch.”
My fingers skim over my jaw. “You want me to talk to myself on the field.”
“You already do. You mutter after dropped passes,” she says calmly. “You did it twice in the clips I watched this morning.”
“Are you studying game film… of me?”
“Of course, I did.”
She didn’t have to do that. Not yet.
Something about that settles oddly in my chest.
“So what’s the magic word?”
She shrugs. “It has to mean something to you.”
“Focus?”
She shakes her head with the end of the pen tapping her lips. “Too generic.”
“Catch?”
“Too obvious?” Her gaze drifts to my hands resting on my knees. “Trust?”
The word stretches between us. I roll it around in my head. Trust.
Maybe that’s why being in this room feels dangerous.
Because somewhere between hating her and needing help, I’m starting to trust her opinion.
“Okay. That’s it?” I ask.
“Stand up.”
“When the ball is coming your way, you inhale once. Slow and controlled.” She lays her hand on my chest, and I swear it sizzles through my shirt. “Do it. Then say the word in your head or out loud. Try it both ways.”
“Say trust and I magically catch the ball.”
She gives me a quick eye roll. “Not magically. You’re interrupting the fear response.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my hands interlaced. “You really believe this works.”
“If this is the problem then I know it does,” she says, something different in her voice. There’s no arrogance. Just experience and trust in her knowledge.
“Got it. Trust.”
She nods like it’s settled and for a minute our hatred for each other fades into something almost normal. Until my phone rings that I set on the table. Face up. I ignore it. Annika doesn’t. I tap the call ya later response.
The screen lights up again. This time her eyes flick down before she can stop herself. A woman in a neon bikini fills the lock screen.
Her nostrils flare slightly but I catch it. Interesting.
Coolly, she looks back at her notes and says, “Phones are a distraction during sessions. Please remember to put it on silent before coming in.”
I flip my phone face down and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Jealous?”
Her head snaps up. “I don’t care who calls you.”
“You looked.”
“I noticed.”
I flash a smile. “There’s college Annika.”
“College Annika didn’t care about the number of women you… and I don’t care now. If you’re done trying to impress me with your fan club, we can get back to fixing your career.”
Our eyes meet.
Hers—defiant.
Mine—challenging.
“Right. You don’t care.”