I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my hands interlaced. “You really believe this works.”
“If this is the problem then I know it does,” she says, something different in her voice. There’s no arrogance. Just experience and trust in her knowledge.
“Got it. Trust.”
She nods like it’s settled and for a minute our hatred for each other fades into something almost normal. Until my phone rings that I set on the table. Face up. I ignore it. Annika doesn’t. I tap thecall ya laterresponse.
The screen lights up again. This time her eyes flick down before she can stop herself. A woman in a neon bikini fills the lock screen.
Her nostrils flare slightly but I catch it.Interesting.
Coolly, she looks back at her notes and says, “Phones are a distraction during sessions. Please remember to put it on silent before coming in.”
I flip my phone face down and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Jealous?”
Her head snaps up. “I don’t care who calls you.”
“You looked.”
“I noticed.”
I flash a smile. “There’s college Annika.”
“College Annika didn’t care about the number of womenyou… and I don’t care now. If you’re done trying to impress me with your fan club, we can get back to fixing your career.”
Our eyes meet.
Hers—defiant.
Mine—challenging.
“Right. You don’t care.”
SIX
ANNIKA
The Armadillos’ front office is nothing like the quiet clinic where I see most of my athletes. My office smells of lavender and espresso. This place reeks of money, and ambition.
As I wait to see the General Manager, Sutton O’Ryan, I look out the observation deck at the testosterone convention filing out onto the field.
Muscled.
Dedicated.
Bare-chested.
My breathing changes when Parker walks out, his jersey thrown over his shoulder, helmet in his grip. He stops and talks to someone who I think is the head coach, his oldest brother, J.D. O’Ryan. It’s hard to tell with his baseball cap on. Why do coaches all wear the same clothes?
The coach slaps his shoulder and from here Parker seems to give him a painful smile and nods. Then proceeds to pull his jersey over his washboard abs. Number eighty.
I walk back inside and the hallways are lined with footballs in glass cases, framed jerseys, and in game photos.
Professional football organizations run like corporations. Men in polos walk past me carrying tablets and talking into headsets like the world will end if someone misses a statistic. I can’t blame them. They want all the facts just like I do. Which is why I’m here—to see Parker’s issue for myself, firsthand. And to ask for film cuts only of Parker.
“Anna.”
Sutton O’Ryan appears from around the corner, moving fast in heels that somehow don’t slow her down. Her hair is twisted into a loose knot, a tablet tucked under her arm, two assistants tailing behind her like eager interns.
