Chapter 7
SEVEN
PARKER
Game days always used to feel simple.
Wake up.
Eat the same high-protein, high-carb breakfast.
Stretch.
Lace up.
Catch the damn ball.
Now, nothing feels simple.
Heat rises off the turf even though it’s only noon. Sometimes I think I should have stayed in Michigan where there are all four seasons. But it wasn’t meant to be. Football may not be either. Maybe my mom is trying to tell me something from up above.
I stand alone on the sideline with a ball in my hands.
Kickoff is only minutes away. Coaches are huddled up. Teammates giving me space. No one mentions the dropped passes but I know what I would be thinking... what can’t he catch the damn ball?
The ball feels normal in my hand. Same leather. Same weight. Same grip.
But my brain whispers to me… you’re going to drop it.
I squeeze my eyes shut and Annika’s voice drifts into my head whether I want it to or not.
Your brain thinks you’re in danger.
Interrupt the voices, the fear.
Breathe.
As much as I hate it, I do what Annika says and I breathe.
Inhale for three seconds then release.
The stadium noise fades just a little. I toss the football up just a little and it lands in my hands. I toss it higher and higher. I catch it clean every time and even though a four-year-old can do the same, it’s a start.
Footsteps echo behind me.
“Parker!”
I turn and Noelle jogs down the sideline with her two kids, holding one and the other gripping her hand. Matt runs over, scooping up the youngest into his arms before kissing Noelle.
It’s our pregame family ritual. Sutton meets Greyson. If Birdie is in town then she meets J.D.
We all exchange hugs and words of encouragement.
Noelle spots me and walks over wrapping me in a hug before I can escape. “You look tense.”
“It’s ninety degrees in November.”
“You’ve played in much hotter weather.” She pulls back, surveying me like she always has, reading me like an open book. “So, how’s the performance coach?”
I shrug. “I’m a work in progress.”
Her eyebrows lift. “I heard she was here at practice.”
Of course, she’s heard. Gossip travels fast through the O’Ryan family.
“She was at the practice facility. Not right here.”
Noelle tilts her head with a suspicious smile. “You know she’s never done an out-of-office visit.”
“Not true. She said she comes out when needed.”
“I asked around.”
“You asked around?”
“Of course I did,” she says proudly. “And all three players I asked said they were strictly seen in the office. Which makes me wonder something,” she smirks.
I already know where this is going. “No.”
“I didn’t even ask the question.” My sister throws her hands into the air.
“You were about to.”
Noelle’s grin widens. “So is the hatred phase over?”
I shake my head in disbelief that she’s talking about this literally fifteen minutes before game time, but that’s my sister.
“We barely tolerate each other. But if she can unblock me, I’ll do what’s necessary.”
Determination.
She studies my face. I have a photo of my mom looking at me this way when I was a toddler. Noelle reminds me of my mom or at least what I think I remember. She loves hard and then a little harder. Not afraid to make a joke or to cry in front of me.
Squeezing my arm, she boasts, “You’ve got this. Love you big.” She presses on her toes, and I bend down a little, knowing what’s coming. She kisses my cheek. “Remember to breathe. And positive thoughts,” she screams as she bounces away wrangling her kids from the rest of the family.
Greyson and J.D. come over next, clapping me on the shoulder. The stadium noise builds as fans pack in. It’s game time.
The sun is merciless as the heat bears down on the back of my neck. We take the field after kickoff and the crowd roars so loud the field vibrates.
Greyson hands it off to the running back, Brown.
He gets four yards. Now we have a perfect passing down.
I line up wide left again. This time when the ball snaps, I run eight yards, shake my defender and turn.
The pass comes like a bullet from my brother, right in between the numbers. Eight-Zero. Right where it should be.
My hands rise. I’ve got this.
And the ball hits off my fingertips, thudding into the turf.
Even through my helmet, I hear the crowd groan.
They’re tired of me dropping passes.
I go back in the huddle, and several guys give me sympathetic glances. Greyson puts his hands over the holes in his helmet listening to the incoming play. “Same play. Jaylen, Parker be ready. It’s coming fast to whoever is more open.”
My teammates take a deep breath. They like me but they want to win more.
Lining up in the same place, I force myself to breathe and say the cue word, trust, in my head.
Another target. Another drop.
This one was worse because I was wide open. The kind of pass that ends up on highlight reels if you catch it because you’re taking it to the house. An easy touchdown.
Or on sports talk radio if you drop it. I know who’ll be talking about me all week.
By the end of the first quarter, the offense stops looking my way. Jaylen is on fire today with three receptions already. The crowd chants his name after he scores on a touchdown pass over his outside shoulder.
Good. He deserves all the praise. Tremendous athlete and an even better person.
At the end of the second quarter, Greyson, Matt or J.D. give me another chance. An opportunity to erase the rest of the game, but I drop it again.
It’s not like the balls are thrown poorly. They’re not.
Greyson’s retiring after this year at forty. He’s a three-time champion, eleven-time Pro Bowler and five-time MVP of the league. Usually, he puts the ball where his receivers can catch it.
We jog toward the tunnel under a wall of noise. I rip my helmet off and slam into the concrete wall. Anger burns through my chest.
Greyson steps in front of me before I can retrieve the helmet or enter the locker room. “Hey.”
Matt joins him. Greyson nods toward the field. “Bro, I have to throw it to the hot hand.”
“I know. Jaylen’s money today.”
Matt adds, “Soon they’ll start double teaming him or inching their coverage in his direction.”
Greyson nods. “And when that happens, you’re going to be wide open.”
More pressure. Perfect.
“Got it?” Greyson asks. His voice is calm and steady.
I nod, but inside the pressure keeps building.
Don’t drop the ball.
Don’t drop the ball especially when you’re wide open.
Don’t blow it.
Don’t fail in front of your whole family.
J.D. gives his half-time speech. We’re winning, so he just makes a few defensive adjustments.
Second half.
Jaylen draws double coverage as Greyson predicted, but we start off with a run for two yards. On second down, I’m lined up inside indicating a short slant route. The snap comes, and I push my cleats into the ground, turn to the outside and sprint down the sideline. The ball spirals toward me.
I inhale.
Trust.
The ball hits my hands and stays in my grip. The crowd erupts and I run another ten yards before being shoved out of bounds.
The stadium roars as I head back to the sideline. This is how football is supposed to be. Teammates slap my helmet. Matt slaps my shoulder with his laminated play call sheet.
But two plays later, they send me back in and the ball skips through my fingers, bouncing off the turf.
Anger boils under my rib cage. Why did I catch it one time and not the others?
As I’m running off the field hearing chants of nepotism. “You’re only here because of your name.”
Jaylen pulls on my elbow, “Next one. Forget the last play. Only look forward.”
I know he’s sincere. That’s the kind of guy he is but his words land hollow anyway.
Matt walks over and hands me a headset. “The press box wants you.”
Great.
“Yeah?”
There’s a beat of hush, then a familiar voice. “You’re not breathing. Why won’t you listen to me?”
“Annika?” I’m confused because if she’s here again, why? Is she trying to make a name for herself? I must be completely broken. Part of me wonders if fixing me would look good on her résumé.
“Please for the love of God, just do what we talked about. We’re retraining your brain. You have to do it every single time.”
I stare up at the press box, unable to pick anyone out. “Got it. Are you here?”
“No, but I’m watching.”
The line clicks dead. Lowering the phone, I glance one more time at the press box.
I follow her directions for the rest of the game and I look like a head case out there, outwardly breathing and closing my eyes and saying trust aloud during every play.
We won the game.
My final stat line:
Three for eight with forty-four yards.
Not incredible, but better than last week when I caught zero passes.