Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ANNIKA
Parker: Looking forward to our appointment tomorrow night. I think we have a lot to talk about.
I read Parker’s text for what must be the millionth time since last night, and still have no idea what we have to talk about other than his fear or the expectations he places on himself.
Hockey?
The way we collided on the ice and he caught me with cat-like reflexes and twisted me before my back slammed into the ice?
The way his hand brushed mine a few times as we skated side by side around the edges like we were two people who didn’t irritate each other more often than not?
Or maybe this is his version of calling a truce.
That thought is the most dangerous of all. Because skating with him was… nice.
Too nice. Too easy.
And that shreds every bit of power I hold.
Now the sun is long gone and darkness presses against the clinic windows while I sit in my office. I’ve never liked being inside with the light on when it’s dark outside. It makes you a prime target. People can see in, but you can’t see outside.
I sit in my office wearing a slate blue blouse and black, wide-legged dress pants and a pair of black heels. I open my laptop once again and finish going over my notes from the day and making sure everything is input into the system.
Taking a peek at my watch, Parker O’Ryan will never learn what irritates me most of all—being late. But I can’t say that I don’t value the extra few minutes to think about his text.
However my brain works best in daylight. Most athletes do as well. Nights are for recovering, resetting, and pretending your thoughts aren’t louder in the dark. I canceled on Parker so when Jenna asked to move him to an afternoon slot because another patient was sick, I told her no.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I make an exception for Parker knowing his Tuesdays are full from morning until night. Seven minutes. He’s seven minutes late.
Maybe he’s in his car working up the nerve to talk to me about whatever. He has been more open and comfortable with our sessions at practice and the call from the press box during the game. He seemed at ease at the rink, like all his worries disappeared while he was skating. We have that in common.
Still, Parker is at his most dangerous when he softens. It makes me forget all the ways he gets under my skin.
Jenna taps on my door, opens it, leans in with her coat already on and purse over her shoulder. “Your celebrity just walked in.” She chuckles, “You want me to tell him you charge $500 for every late minute?”
“No, send him in.”
“You sure? Because I’m feeling protective.”
I try not to smile but it’s hard not to. Her personality is contagious. “Go home, Jenna. Make sure to lock up.”
Her focus lingers on me for a second. “Don’t stay too late.”
“I won’t. It’s my fault for canceling on him yesterday.”
She gives me a daring look and I shoo her out.
A minute later Parker’s body fills the doorway.
Dark jeans. White untucked fitted, button-down, perfect for his frame. Hair messy like he’s been driving with the windows down. No hat. No pads. No armor except the tension I see in his jaw.
His eyes land on mine. Then my mouth and back to my eyes. Suddenly the room feels small.
“You’re late again.” His mouth tips. “And you changed my appointment to a nighttime slot so you could go ice skating. Guess we’re both living recklessly.”
I should tell him to sit down and start the session, instead I say, “Come in before Jenna comes back and tackles you. She’s very protective over me.”
“Does she know your secret?” He shuts the door behind him and walks into the heart of the room. His gaze moves over the familiar neutral furniture, the soft light from the lamp, the framed abstract print above the bookshelf behind him.
I let out a half-laugh. “I don’t have secrets.”
“I liked you better at the rink. You were more open, relaxed,” he scoffs.
I lift a brow. “I didn’t ask if you liked me.”
He gestures with his hands. “Just giving you feedback.”
“Let’s keep it to football.”
He sneaks a glance at the chair but doesn’t sit yet. “That’s not what we need to talk about.”
A thread tightens around my heart. Somehow I keep my voice even. “You text like a man who thinks mystery is charming.”
“And you left me on read without responding. Probably overanalyzing my punctuation.”
“Analyzing is what psychologists do.”
“You’re a performance consultant. You said it yourself.” His lips twitch and I hate that I notice.
I hate more that he’s right.
I look down at my laptop, close it and gesture to the chair. “Sit, please.”
This time he does, but there’s nothing relaxed about it. His knees spread, enough to lean forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped together like he’s keeping something inside.
Sitting across from him, I cross one leg over the other. “What did you want to talk about?”
His eyes narrow, thoughtfully. “You.”
My pulse stutters. I never want to talk about myself. Ever.
“That’s not why you’re here.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Why does everything between us have to be a battle? It’s like the drumbeat leading up to conquering the enemy. He leans back, assessing his enemy, long fingers tapping against the armrest. “I’ve been trying to think of your last name when you were tutoring me. What is... was it? Not Morrow.”
The question lands sharper than it should. Somehow I keep my face neutral.
“Excuse me?”
“My brain says it started with a P. Or am I making that up?” He studies me carefully. “What was it?”
I smother under the silence, while freaking out on the inside. I question my judgment over and over. Going ice skating was dangerous. I should’ve shut him down there and left.
“Why are you asking?”
He shrugs but it’s too deliberate. Too soft. “Because I’m trying to remember things I should’ve paid more attention to.”
I stare at him, holding my breath for a long note. There’s something underneath his words. Not quite an apology. Not quite regret. Curiosity? Maybe. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make me uneasy.
“You don’t need my old name to catch a football,” I say.
“True,” he agrees. “But I think it matters.”
I shift my notebook onto my lap in an effort to protect myself, go into professional mode and buy myself two extra seconds. “It doesn’t.”
“So there is an old name. Or was that a fake name and this is your real one?” He exhales through his mouth and his gaze drops to my hand tapping the pen for just a moment.
I should be irritated, instead, I’m annoyed that I exposed myself. I should have never taken him on as a client. What are the odds that a professional football player was also a hockey player?
Gathering my thoughts. I say quietly, “There are old versions of everyone, it doesn’t mean they belong in this room.”
Our eyes meet. God, he’s unbelievably handsome.
“So that means you aren’t going to tell me? You know I can find out, right.”
“I’m setting a boundary. We talk about you when we’re in session.”
One corner of his mouth pulls, exposing his dimpled smile. “You really love that word, boundary.”
“I do.”
Amusement dances in his eyes, “Most people would lie better than you.”
“Most people aren’t me.”
“No,” he mumbles, his voice, lower and softer than usual. “They’re not.”
Something has changed in him since catching me at the rink.
The air shifts. Just enough to make me aware of the darkness fallen around the building, the emptiness of the reception area and the fact that we’re very much alone.
I force us back to safer ground.
“How did practice go today?”
Parker looks mildly disappointed at the pivot, which tells me I made the right call.
He answers with one word. “Better.”
“Define better.”
He rests his elbows on his knees again. “I only dropped a few during drills.”
“Out of how many?”
“I don’t know it could have been four out of thirty. That’s progress for me.” His voice is dry and taut like he’s not proud that he’s on the path to success again.
“It is.” I flip my notebook open and start jotting down information. “Did you use the cue?”
“Trust.” His eyes drop to my lips as I repeat the word.
Please stop looking at my mouth.
“Before every rep?”
“Most of them.”
“Not all?”
He shakes his head no but doesn’t offer a reason as to why he didn’t do it every single time.
I nod. “What happened when you didn’t use it?”
He shoots me a slight eye roll. “You know what happened.”
“Did you drop the ball when you did use the cue word?”
“Once.”
“Why is that?”
“I started anticipating the miss. Tightened up.”
“Before the ball reached you?”
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a second, like he hates admitting it. “The noise in my head dropped.”
I write that down.
He watches me. He’s very observant and perceptive. “You write everything down.”
“Patterns matter.” Underlining the word in my notebook, I continue, “While doing the drills, was there defense on you?”
“No.”
“What happens when the defense is playing? Do you drop the football more times or less?”
“That’s tomorrow’s practice. Tuesdays are spent watching film from the mistakes last game, weight room, drills, meetings with offensive coaches individually and then my charitable foundation work.” He clears his throat. “That’s why I was late.”
My eyebrows dip, questioning.
“I took eighty kids to an indoor football game. They wanted pizza after, so we went to DeRosas where you used to be a waitress.”
Handsome doesn’t cover it. He takes time out of his week to spend it with children. I don’t even know how to respond.
“So you spend your off-hours with kids?”
He rubs his thighs and says, “Yeah. Adults too, they volunteer since most have been abused or neglected in some way and the adults offer first hand experience. I just want to help people who didn’t grow up in an environment like mine.”
“Loved?” I ask.
A hush falls over us as he nods.
It’s not uncomfortable, but it is charged.