I almost smile. “You confuse arrogance and confidence. Arrogance is pretending there’s no problem.”
“What’s my problem?” he jabs.
“Tell me about the drop?”
“The drop?” He raises a quizzical brow.
“Yes, walk me through it like it’s a film session.”
“I push off the line of scrimmage, run my route, hand up, eyes see the ball into my hands. Except the last part. It’s hitting my fingertips like I’m a half secondlate.”
“And then?
“And then…” his voice falters, teetering on the edge. “It’s like my hands don’t trust what my eyes see.”
There it is. The disconnect.
Sensory information versus motor response.
Not physical.
Not a big injury.
Fear.
“Does it only happen during in-game situations? Like when you’re either playing a game or scrimmage?”
His chin falls to his chest as he shakes his head no. “Anytime. Not every time, but too many times. It happened while I was playing catch with my nephew. A toddler rearing back and throwing the ball two miles per hour and I still couldn’t keep my grip on a tiny ball.”
This is good. He’s opening up to me. Good. I scratch out a few more notes.
“Can you recall when it started?”
He hesitates, “Recently.”
“That’s vague.”
“I don’t remember.”
That sounds like a lie. Or avoidance.
Or it could be a protective mechanism. The memory gets fuzzy when fear is involved. I go through possible reasons when I should be listening and watching his body language for clues.
I crank my head to the side. “Your body remembers even when you don’t.”
“Here we go again.” Frustration smothers every word.
“Your body is telling you something. We just need to translate it.”
He laughs just enough for his dimples to frame hismouth and a warm feeling travels through me. Seeing him smile despite the fact his mind and body are disconnected. He studies me, eyes narrowing and for a second I see the Parker from college. The one who seemed to be wondering what I was thinking.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“Just thinking you’re still bossy.”