The ball hits my hands—and drops.
Not a bad throw. Not wind. Not sweat.
Just me, a professional wide receiver not being able to catch a damn football.
I stare down at the grass like it personally betrayed me, my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with conditioning and everything to do with fear. The kind that doesn’t hit all at once but creeps in, quiet and relentless.
Not the awkward kind. The heavier kind.
Matt doesn’t react. He never does when it matters. Just bends, picks up the ball, and hands it back to his kid. “Again.”
My jaw tightens.
He rears back and throws it to me.
Same thing. My timing’s off. My hands don’t trust what my eyes already know. Something I never had to think about before.
I step back, drag my hands down my face. I mutter, “Need water.”
Matt studies me like he’s watching film. Doesn’t push. He never does. Always positive and calm, but I can see the worry lines stretching across his forehead.
“Again, Daddy!” my nephew shouts.
Matt grins. “All right, all right. Last one. Then it’s bath time.”
I walk to the patio, running my hands through my hair. My body feels fine. Strong. Fast. Healthy. I’ve passed every physical, every drill, every metric the Austin Armadillos care about.
But lately, when it matters most, when instinct should take over—I hesitate.
That half-second is everything in this league.
Noelle appears beside me, carrying a tray of lemonade like this is just another late summer evening and not the slow unraveling of my career. She searches my face the way she always does, like she’s reading a story no one else notices.
“You want to talk?” she asks gently.
I exhale. “I’ve talked to everyone. Dad, J.D., Greyson. Matt. Even Witt.” My family hasn’t been able to help.
“And?”
“Everyone keeps asking if I’m overthinking.” I swallow. “I don’t think I am. I think something’s wrong.”
She doesn’t dismiss my opinion. That’s her gift.
Before she can say anything, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sutton: Call me.
Sutton’s thegeneral manager of the team and my sister-in-law, so I step away and call. “What’s up?”
“We made you an appointment,” Sutton says, brisk but kind. “Sports psychologist. Tomorrow at ten.”
My stomach drops. “I didn’t?—”
“You didn’t ask,” she finishes. “But you didn’t have to. This isn’t punishment. It’s support.”
I glance back at the yard. Matt has his arm around my nephew, his other hand steadying his kid’s tiny throw. Just like Dad did with me.
“Okay,” I say finally.
