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, Kane 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 professional football.
My sister, Noelle appears beside me, carrying a tray of lemonade like this is just another late October 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.”
No one’s been able to get to the root of the problem and I can’t seem to either.
“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 Noelle’s gift. Should I go to a neurologist? I’ve been reading way too much and I keep finding articles about tumors pressing on partsof your brain, inhibiting the time it takes for your brain to tell your body what to do.
Cancer?
Before she can say anything, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sutton: Call me.
Sutton’s the general 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 Performance Coach. 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 don’t have a concussion and honestly I’m afraid to ask for an MRI. 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.
“Good. You’ll get a text.”
The call ends. A second later, my phone buzzes again.
ANNA MORROW, CMPC — APPOINTMENT CONFIRMED
Tomorrow | 10:00 AM
