“Good. You’ll get a text.”
The call ends. A second later, my phone buzzes again.
ANNA MORROW, PSYD — APPOINTMENT CONFIRMED
Tomorrow | 10:00 AM
I walk back toward Noelle, already annoyed at myself for the tension climbing my spine. For somehow getting into this situation where I need help.
“Who was it?” she asks.
“Sutton set up an appointment with a… sports psychologist.”
Noelle tilts her head. “Who?”
“Anna Morrow.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Oh.”
“‘Oh’ what?” I ask, hiding my fear in a glass of lemonade.
“I know her,” Noelle says. “From work. A lot of guys swear by her. Say she helped them through career-ending stuff.”
Great. She helps desperate players.
I barely sleep through the night. Nervous about my career. Afraid of being mocked. More afraid of a doctor digging around in my head. An O’Ryan should be ableto fix it themselves. I mean it’s fucking football—my family’s legacy.
The next morning, I sit in my truck outside her office, gripping the steering wheel like it might keep me from bolting.
This is stupid.
I don’t need this.
Still, I go in.
The waiting room is quiet. Too clean. Too calm.
“Parker O’Ryan?”
I look up. The doctor’s gaze locks on mine.
Recognition hits.
Annika stands in the doorway with a tablet tucked to her chest, hair pulled back, posture controlled. Same warm eyes. Same closed-off calm that always felt like a challenge.
My college tutor.
Who hates me with a passion.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble under my breath.
Her lips press together. “I could say the same.” Then she locks back into professional mode. “Come on back.”
I follow her down the hall into an office that looks intentionally neutral—no sports posters, no motivational crap. Just space. Silence.
I stay standing.
She notices. “Have a seat.”
