Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
ANNIKA
I shouldn’t be smiling.
But I am. And I can’t seem to stop.
The stadium is alive in a way that feels uniquely New Orleans. Music pulses between plays, fans are on the edge of their seats, loud and relentless, like every down matters just a little more here.
Suffocating humidity presses in on me from all sides, clinging to my skin, and to my clothes. The smell of beignets and fried everything drifts from the media room just inside the tunnel.
It’s chaotic and loud, yet I feel lighter than I have in years, like I’m walking on sunshine.
On the field, the Armadillos move through warmups, focused.
Every motion is purposeful.
I find Parker, observing every route, the shift of his weight and even the flex of his hands right before the ball is snapped.
My body recognizes him before my brain can stop it. It seems as if I can still feel his hands grasping my hips and his lips skating over my skin.
Get last night out of your mind.
I cross my arms over my waist, grounding myself. Be professional.
Not like last night.
My heart is sewn together and one stitch popped loose last night. Like maybe I can trust him with everything, not just my body.
The New Orleans fans bring me back to reality, yelling as the Armadillo kick returner runs it to the fifty-yard line, giving us fantastic field position. Parker lines up. One receiver on the outside of him. He rolls his shoulders once, shaking out his arms like he’s shedding a skin.
Good. That’s new.
“Trust,” I say, barely audible.
The ball is snapped to his brother and Greyson scans the field. Parker fakes the defender, fast and effortless, distancing himself.
The ball spirals toward him.
Trust. Trust. Trust.
It’s unhealthy how much I want him to catch the ball.
Parker sees the ball into his hands and catches it, turning and gaining ten more yards before he’s tackled.
He springs up from the turf, extending his arm motioning a first down.
I catch myself clapping so hard my hands burn. His teammates are jumping and patting his helmet.
Perfect. This is how Parker looks when he’s happy.
He runs a sideline route. Another catch.
The running back gets the ball the next two plays then it’s back to Parker. He leaps into the air and there’s no way he catches this ball. It’s too high. Somehow Parker stretches his body, hauling in the pass. He stutter-steps and three more yards into the end zone.
It’s the biggest celebration I’ve seen since college. Parker’s teammates clearly love him and want him to succeed.
He walks toward the sideline—looking.
For me.
Heat blooms in my stomach, sharp and convincing. I hold his gaze for a half a second, then look away. Why?
Because I can’t let him see how undeniably happy I am for him.
I watch his sister, Noelle, a league sideline reporter, grab him and stuff a microphone in his face. She gets a quick sound bite and heads over to the New Orleans side.
By the second quarter, it’s undeniable. He’s different. Not perfect but the balls he hasn’t caught have been off target or he’s been pushed and held.
The hesitation is fading. He’s not flinching or second-guessing.
He seems to trust himself and God, the Parker that trusts himself is glorious. It might be the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m lost in post-sex haze with Parker when Sutton strides up beside me.
“Looks like your guy is back,” she says, arms crossed as she surveys the field.
“My guy?” I ask, hoping she didn’t see me go into Parker’s room.
She smirks, “Your client.”
Right. My client.
“He’s making progress.” I keep my tone even.
“Uh-huh.”
I ignore her tone.
“I know that look,” she challenges.
"What look?”
“The one where you pretend you’re observing, but you’re actually invested.”
“I am observing.”
Did she see me go into his room last night? Is she going to tell me to cut ties with Parker that our relationship is against corporate policy and unprofessional?
“I used to look at Greyson like that. Pretend we were less than we were.” She shoots me an omniscient grin.
I miss the snap but Parker cuts inside and I see his shoulders turn. The ball hits his hand and sticks. He turns up field, his long legs fast and graceful like a gazelle. Touchdown. The small contingent of Dillo fans erupt and I join in the celebration, and yell, “Yes!”
Helmets knock and Greyson can’t run fast enough to slap his helmet and bump his chest.
Sutton claps and a childish laugh bursts from her mouth. “He’s improving. Operation Head Play is working.” She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“He started listening.”
A few seconds later, Parker finds me on the sideline.
My pulse spikes. Because this time, I stare back, and his million-watt smile ignites memories of him moving over me.
I give him a thumbs up when I really want to run into his arms and kiss him.
Then his offensive coordinator steals his attention.
Sutton says, “Maybe he’s listening or maybe it’s something else.”
“As long as it’s working, right?” I ask.
“Parker’s on today. So yep, something is working.”
“He is,” I say, still riding the high and replaying our night together on a constant loop in my mind.
“Is the problem fixed or is this just a high amongst the lows?” she asks, chewing on her lip.
I sigh. “We won’t know for a while.”
There is so much I want to say but need to keep my feelings about Parker to myself for a shopping list full of reasons.
Her phone rings but just before she answers, she asks, “Did you get a room last night?” She holds her phone to her ear.
I nod, gesturing for her to take the call. “I did.”
She turns walking into the tunnel, so I walk down the sideline, checking my phone. Or pretending to. Footsteps approach.
“Are you hiding from me?” Parker’s voice is low threaded with that same quiet amusement I saw last night.
“Nope, just working.” I turn my phone around showing him my notes.
“Right.”
He waits for me to look up and there it is again, the shift. Sweat slicks his arms as he towels them off, but his eyes are a clear and present danger—to me anyway.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“For what?”
“For fixing your career.”
His mouth curves into a half-moon. “Is that what you did?”
“Yes.”
“Funny,” he mumbles and it sounds the way he said my name last night. “I don’t remember you being on the field.”
“I didn’t need to be.”
“No?” His gaze drops to my hands and then lifts again. “So, all I need is you?” he asks quietly.
My breath catches. Does he mean he needs me to be successful at work or he needs me, needs me?
“That’s not what I said.”
“Sounds like it.” He closes the space between us. “Because I’m thinking none of the other stuff worked.”
“Other stuff?” I ask, my eyebrows knitting together.
He smirks, “Breathing, cue words and all the other things you told me to do.”
“And what do you think attributed this first half turnaround?”
He traps me in his gaze and I couldn’t look away if I tried.
“I think I found something that works better and it’s much more fun.”
Heat climbs up my neck. “You’re impossible.”
“And you like it. You said so when we…”
“I can barely tolerate you,” I say, trying to convince myself.
“So you flew out here for a client who makes your blood pressure spike?” He asks, amused, dimples framing his mouth.
“I came to observe, remember?”
He takes a step closer, subtle, yet intentional. “Yeah, did I pass your up-close observation?”
With flying freaking colors.
Matt calls his name, breaking the spell he’s put me under.
“I slipped a keycard in your purse before I left this morning. After the game we’ll go back to the hotel to get luggage. Since you’re not flying with the team, I thought you might want to get your bag. But if you want to have a session… I’m up for it.”
He jogs back to the team, spins and says, “Don’t leave.”
When the game is over, I rush back to the hotel, so I won’t run into Sutton or the rest of his family. I grab my bag and head to the airport, but I do send him a text before take-off.
Me: Great game. You did it. Not me or anyone else. Keep your mind clear. Since you seem to think you’re fixed, I’ll cancel your Monday session.
When I land in Austin, his response is waiting on me.
Parker: I need a session tonight. I’m sure you have my address.
A girlish grin tickles my lips.
Me: Thanks, but I’m good.
Parker loves the chase. All guys do.
He loves sprinting after balls, launching himself into the air, trusting his body to do what his mind tries to ruin. He thrives in the moment of split-second decisions where everything is instinct, risk and reward.
So I make him chase me and I’ll figure out if it’s real or if he peters out.
Because I need to know. Was last night just another moment for him? Another high? Another win?
Or, was it something more. It feels like something more. I stare out my window as I pull into the driveway. The engine ticks as it cools.
The quiet of my house greets me.
Controlled.
Quiet.
Safe from my feelings.
I had sex with Parker.
I can’t recall a time when I was so unprofessional.
Not in hockey growing up—I was always the first one on the ice and the last one off.
Not in college.
Dean’s list. Focused.
Not at the pizza parlor.
Reliable. Friendly and invisible when needed.
Not in my professional career.
Controlled.
Observant.
Successful.
Until now. Until Parker.
The way his hands felt. The way he slowed down, and damn, the way he looked at me like he could see inside my soul. See and feel what I needed.
This can’t happen. It can’t.
Needing something to ground me, I drop my bag and walk to the kitchen and fill a glass of water.
That’s when I see the envelope on the counter. It wasn’t there when I left.
My stomach curls up in knots.
There’s no stamp. No return address.
Just an envelope with my name—Annika.
The only person that calls me Annika is on the team plane.
My fingers hover over the envelope. A strange familiar dread creeps up my spine. I glance toward the door, then flip on the lights, half expecting for someone to be there hiding. Waiting for me.
To catch me off-guard.
There’s nothing but silence. It’s always quiet before everything breaks.
I pick up the envelope and the paper feels heavier than your typical notecard. Like it carries something more than ink and words.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I slide my finger under the seal and open it.
One sheet. One line.
“You’ve always been good at pretending nothing happened.”
That’s all. But it’s enough to let out a desperate gasp, because I recognize the handwriting from memories, nightmares and headlines.
From everything I buried and ran from.
And just like that, the past I erased knows where I live.