Chapter 6 #2
“Thanks Sutton. For the tape, the family history. I’ll watch for a minute and see if I should go down. Nice meeting you.”
She smiles and gets right to work telling maintenance, “We can’t have a leak in the concession stand, the game is at noon tomorrow. Make sure it’s fixed… at least temporarily.”
Back on the field, Parker lines up first while Matt stands ten yards away with a laminated script tucked under his arm and a ball in the other hand.
Even from here I can tell that Parker and Matt are close. Matt says something. Parker nods and sets. His fingers curl like he’s ready to catch the ball.
Parker breaks.
A good push off his front foot.
He runs sharp and fast.
Eyes up.
“Trust,” I say under my breath. “Say it, Parker.”
The ball hits his hands.
And drops.
He stiffens.
His hands clench.
He’s not dramatic about it, but I see it. The flare of anger before he masks it. The way he glances at his coaches, his brothers, as if he’s looking for criticism and witnesses to his failures.
He takes another rep and this one he catches. Next one is a drop. This goes on for a while before a guy steps up beside me. He watches Parker drop and catch, tallying up his catches. He must be from the analytics dept.
Parker’s shoulder locks. “That’s the moment,” I say, proud of catching the moment in action.
The guy nods. “He expects perfection.”
Matt says something to Parker, not a harsh comment judging from his posture. It appears instructional rather than punitive. Parker nods but his chin lifts in that way that says he’s hearing criticism anyway. And from personal experience with Parker, he doesn’t want to be critiqued.
“Is the offensive coordinator too hard on him?” I ask.
The guy considers it. “No, but Parker has always kept his feelings hidden.”
“Always?”
“Brother.” He doesn’t offer more.
I watch another coach get into his personal space, miming the hand placement. Another ball comes and catches it clean, but then the next ball ricochets off his palms and skids across the turf like he’s thinking about his hands instead of trusting them.
Classic.
He rips off his helmet and slams it to the ground.
Hard.
His chest heaves and I see the flicker of embarrassment he’s trying to hide.
“I’m going down there,” I say.
“He’ll hate it.”
“Don’t care.” I’m already moving and by the time I reach the sideline, I’m in sensory overload. Bigger. Louder. More physical. The smell of rubber grass pellets, sweat and athletic tape.
Too much sensation. Which means Parker’s nervous system feels like he’s in the middle of a fireworks display.
Matt, the OC, sees me first. His brows lift but he gives me a slight nod. Maybe Sutton told him I was here. Parker stands at the thirty-yard line, hands braced on his hips with his helmet dangling by one finger.
“Parker.”
His body goes rigid. Turns and the look on his face is exactly what I expected.
Irritation.
Humiliation.
Anger.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps, voice low and rough.
“Observing.”
He hacks out a sharp laugh. “Great. Now everyone’s going to think I’m crazy.”
“No. They’re going to think your performance consultant is consulting.”
He tunnels his fingers through his hair. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You threw your helmet.”
“And?”
“Your body is escalating.”
He stares a hole through me.
I step closer, almost whispering. “Look at me.”
“I’m not doing therapy on the field.”
“Let me help you. Right here. Right now.” I wait until I see him take a breath. “How does your body feel right now?”
His pupils are slightly blown and sweat slicks his neck. He’s not going full speed, and the facility is cool. Stress responses.
He shifts his weight several times before mumbling, “Everything’s tight.”
“Be specific.”
“Chest. Hands. Neck.”
“Good.”
His eyes narrow. “Good?”
“Yes. We need information.” I keep my voice clipped. “What did you feel before that last drop?”
“Don’t know.”
“That’s not true. If you’re not willing to figure this out then your …” I stop before I make things worse. What would happen if his own brother and sister-in-law decide to trade him or cut him? The thought knocks my heart against my rib cage.
“Annika—”
“My name is Anna.”
His expression shifts. “What?”
“My professional name is Anna.”
Something unreadable flashes across his face. “Fine, Anna. What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
His nostrils flare and for a second, I think he’ll shut down again, but instead, he admits, “I saw it before it happened.”
I don’t move. That one sentence anchors my shoes to the turf.
Anticipatory failure image.
A mental prediction so strong that his body obeys it.
“Okay, we’re going to interrupt that feeling.”
“And how are we going to do that?” He groans low.
“Feet shoulder width apart.” He shifts. “Drop your shoulders.” They drop. “Inhale through your nose.” He does. “Slower.”
He tries again.
“Now hold for three seconds,” I say. “And exhale through your mouth.” When he does, his shoulders lower another inch and the tension around his eyes relax, lines disappearing.
He repeats it three times and even with the chaos of practice continues around us, Parker focuses on the rhythm of his breathing.
When he opens his eyes, he admits, “That actually helps.” He watches me. His eyes search like he’s recalculating something. “What’s next?” he asks.
“We add the cue.”
“Trust.”
Our eyes meet. Lingering. Too. Long.
What is going on with me?
“Hmm. Yeah.”
Well that didn’t sound professional. At all.
“Okay, let’s do it.” He motions for the quarterback to throw him the ball. His brother smiles and launches the football from the middle of the field. It reaches its highest point and as it’s starting to fall, Parker lifts his hands, but I see him pause a half-second.
He sucks in a short breath and his lips move.
“Trust.”
He freaking listened to me. Parker O’Ryan took my advice and used it.
The ball hits his palms. His long fingers wrap around it and it stays put. He looks down at the ball, surprised it obeyed him. Hope flickers across his face.
Parker tosses me the ball and looks at me. “That felt normal.”
Hope can be dangerous because it raises the stakes. I feel my face morph into a faint smile.
“You’re not impressed.” His browns knit together.
“It takes more than a guy catching a ball to impress me,” I say with a little too much flirtation in my voice. I clear my throat. “I’m glad you listened. Now go work on making it a habit.”
“Yes, doc.”
“I’m not a doctor, yet. Just consider me another coach that’s on your side.”
This earns me a wide, charming smile with dimples on full display. He picks his helmet from the ground and runs to the receiver’s line.
As I continue to observe, I notice progress. Small, but it’s there. He appears lighter on the field, except when he misses the catch. Then he glances at his coaches to see if they saw the miss. The way he feels pressure building in his coaches' body language and in their eyes.
By the time practice winds down, one thing is painfully clear—the problem isn’t mechanics.
It could be fear. But I think it’s expectation. Or both.
He’s not afraid of the ball. He’s afraid of failing in front of people who he believes expect him to be perfect. And maybe they do. It will take many more sessions to figure it out.
That kind of pressure doesn’t exist in your hands. It lives in your mind. Which means the real work hasn’t even started.
As Parker walks off the field, his head coach, J.D, wraps a long arm around his shoulder and ruffles his hair. “Keep working. You’ll beat this.”
I make a note on my phone regarding our next session.
When I’m finished, I glance around just in time to catch him looking at me.
And I wonder how many sessions it will take. Will he let me continue to help him or is he one dropped pass away from scratching me off his schedule.