His throat works, swallowing his words.
Pride.
Fear.
The truth.
He looks away before he decides to sit again.
He’s staying. That’s progress.
For a second, he’s not cocky or angry. Just a man staring at the possibility of losing the thing he loves most.
“It’s happening again.”
Again?
That one word changes everything. It tells me this isn’t new. Maybe he was able to hide it before. It’s resurfacing for a reason. And a part of me wants to know what else he’s carrying besides trying to follow in his family’s legacy.
“Tell me what again means.”
He doesn’t look at me, preferring to fixate on the wheatfield painting. “It means I’m fine one minute and the next I’m not.”
I writecomes and goeson my notepad.
“Definenot.”
A sharp laugh laced with fear escapes his throat. “Not. Not catching the ball. Not trusting my hands. Not trusting my brain. It’s like my instincts are gone.”
I nod slow and empathetic, understanding how he feels. “Okay.”
His brows furrow together and the fear in his eyes shows through. “That’s it? You’re just going to say okay?”
“Yes. Panic doesn’t help.”
“You’re so…”
“Cold?” I supply, remembering that one word that stung for a long time.
His mouth closes and the flicker of a memory passes between us—an echo of the library three years ago. The way his word slapped me in the face.
He lets out a heavy breath. “Yeah.”
I’ve learned to let things sink in and not to react out of emotion. “Parker, I’m not cold. I’m controlled. There’s a difference.”
He scoffs in disbelief. “Same thing.”
“No, it’s not. Cold is absence. Control is a choice.”
He’s searching for a way to argue the point but can’t quite find the right angle.
“Thanks for being on time. That was a choice. I’m not your adversary. We’re here to fix your performance issues.”
He chews on his full bottom lip, crossing his arms over his chest making sure I know his armor is on and he’s protected. “And you think you can. Fix me.”
“I know I can if we work together.”
“Arrogant.”
