“He’ll hate it.”
“Don’t care.” I’m already moving and by the time I reach the sideline, I’m in sensory overload. Bigger. Louder. More physical. The smell of rubber grass pellets, sweat and athletic tape.
Too much sensation. Which means Parker’s nervous system feels like he’s in the middle of a fireworksdisplay.
Matt, the OC, sees me first. His brows lift but he gives me a slight nod. Maybe Sutton told him I was here. Parker stands at the thirty-yard line, hands braced on his hips with his helmet dangling by one finger.
“Parker.”
His body goes rigid. Turns and the look on his face is exactly what I expected.
Irritation.
Humiliation.
Anger.
“What are you doing here?” he snaps, voice low and rough.
“Observing.”
He hacks out a sharp laugh. “Great. Now everyone’s going to think I’m crazy.”
“No. They’re going to think your performance consultant is consulting.”
He tunnels his fingers through his hair. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You threw your helmet.”
“And?”
“Your body is escalating.”
He stares a hole through me.
I step closer, almost whispering. “Look at me.”
“I’m not doing therapy on the field.”
“Let me help you. Right here. Right now.” I wait until I see him take a breath. “How does your body feel right now?”
His pupils are slightly blown and sweat slicks his neck. He’s not going full speed, and the facility is cool. Stress responses.
He shifts his weight several times before mumbling, “Everything’s tight.”
“Be specific.”
“Chest. Hands. Neck.”
“Good.”
His eyes narrow. “Good?”
“Yes. We need information.” I keep my voice clipped. “What did you feel before that last drop?”
“Don’t know.”
“That’s not true. If you’re not willing to figure this out then your …” I stop before I make things worse. What would happen if his own brother and sister-in-law decide to trade him or cut him? The thought knocks my heart against my rib cage.
