“I’m not scared.”
“Parker, I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t out of options and tried everything else. Your body is hesitating.”
My fingers curl into a fist on my knee. She doesn’t budge, just stays locked in on me. She’s good. I want to stand up and run. She must see it because she says, “Remember the rule.”
“You would really threaten to drop me?”
“It’s not a threat. It’s a boundary.” She’s calm, cool and collected.
I swallow the smartass chuckle tickling my throat. “Right, boundaries.”
“Let’s do this right and we’ll have you back to scoring playoff-winning touchdowns in no time,” she says, obviously trying to get me to stay. “No more storming out. No ego games.”
“Ego games?”
“Pretending you don’t care when we both know you do. Pretending it doesn’t matter.”
I roll it over in my mind and admit, “I care. It matters.”
It’s an admission, hanging there in silence. Bare. Vulnerable.
She keeps her face free of expression. No judgment.
My thoughts race. This isn’t just about catching. It’s about fear and my identity. Pressure and loss.
“Okay. Good. Let’s start the session with the basics. Breathing.”
I swallow a laugh. “I can breathe.”
“You’d be amazed at how many athletes forget to breathe when their amygdala is screaming.”
Why can’t doctors use words their patients can pronounce?
This time I can’t help but smile. “You love that word.”
“I do, because it’s relevant. And because it annoys you,” she says, her mouth dragging into a reluctant, fleeting almost-smile.
It’s gone quickly and the underlying tension remains. But it’s something. Then she’s all back to business. “We’re going to build a routine. A pre-catch cue. A reset. A trigger word. Something your body can anchor when fear spikes.”
Annika’s eyes glimmer. I’ve never noticed how they dance when she has an action plan. I tuck that back in my mind.
“It sounds insane.”
She admits, “It might, but it works.”
“And you can fix me?”
“I’m sureyoucan. I’m just here to help you access what’s already inside you.” Her voice is sure and steady. “And as you know, I believe in process. You’re not broken. You’re blocked.”
Leaning forward, I tip my hands over my nose and let out a breath. “Okay, tell me what to do.”
She doesn’t look at me like she beat me, instead, she looks at me with gratitude for believing in her. And even though I don’t want to be here letting Annika play with my head, for the first time, I’m willing to put myself on the line to keep my football career.
She flips her notebook back open, writing something down. “Okay, let’s build a reset. Think of it like a mentalreboot.” She looks up for a hot second. “When the brain senses fear, the amygdala hijacks the brain.”
“How could I forget you use the word anytime you get a chance? But yes, I remember the part of your brain that ruins everything.” My voice is dry and is close to sounding disinterested.
“Or it can protect you. Depends on the situation,” she corrects, ignoring my tone. Now her eyes are locked on mine. “When your brain thinks you’re in danger, even if you’re not, it sends signals to your body to prepare for impact. Muscles tighten. Breathing changes. Reaction time slows. That’s when you drop the ball.”
