“Annika—”
“My name is Anna.”
His expression shifts. “What?”
“My professional name is Anna.”
Something unreadable flashes across his face. “Fine, Anna. What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
His nostrils flare and for a second, I think he’ll shut down again, but instead, he admits, “I saw it before it happened.”
I don’t move. That one sentence anchors my shoes to the turf.
Anticipatory failure image.
A mental prediction so strong that his body obeys it.
“Okay, we’re going to interrupt that feeling.”
“And how are we going to do that?” He groans low.
“Feet shoulder width apart.” He shifts. “Drop yourshoulders.” They drop. “Inhale through your nose.” He does. “Slower.”
He tries again.
“Now hold for three seconds,” I say. “And exhale through your mouth.” When he does, his shoulders lower another inch and the tension around his eyes relax, lines disappearing.
He repeats it three times and even with the chaos of practice continues around us, Parker focuses on the rhythm of his breathing.
When he opens his eyes, he admits, “That actually helps.” He watches me. His eyes search like he’s recalculating something. “What’s next?” he asks.
“We add the cue.”
“Trust.”
Our eyes meet. Lingering. Too. Long.
What is going on with me?
“Hmm. Yeah.”
Well that didn’t sound professional. At all.
“Okay, let’s do it.” He motions for the quarterback to throw him the ball. His brother smiles and launches the football from the middle of the field. It reaches its highest point and as it’s starting to fall, Parker lifts his hands, but I see him pause a half-second.
He sucks in a short breath and his lips move.
“Trust.”
He freaking listened to me. Parker O’Ryan took my advice and used it.
The ball hits his palms. His long fingers wrap around it and it stays put. He looks down at the ball, surprised it obeyed him. Hope flickers acrosshis face.
Parker tosses me the ball and looks at me. “That felt normal.”
Hope can be dangerous because it raises the stakes. I feel my face morph into a faint smile.