Page 1 of The Rookie's Sister

ONE

EMMA

The buzz from the crowd is humming through my bones while I’m hanging on the sidelines of the Chicago Thunderhawks’ practice field. I’m clutching a clipboard and trying to spot my brother Jeff among the sea of jerseys and helmets.

The field’s lit up with players—every muscle popping, faces all determination and grit—they’re running drill after drill under the blazing sun. And there he is. I’d know Jeff anywhere. The way he holds his shoulders, the jitter in his feet while he waits for the play to start, he’s all in, ready to show them what he’s got.

This is Jeff’s first official team practice, and it feels like all eyes are glued to him, sizing him up, wondering if my little bro has what it takes to hit the big leagues. Dad has been managing Jeff since he was just a kid, and I’ve been helping as much as possible while getting my degree in sports psychology.

A movement in my peripheral vision snaps me from my thoughts. Xavier Johnson, Thunderhawks star player and cockiest ego, has just swaggered onto the field twenty minutes late. Even from here, his charisma is as undeniable as his attractiveness as he smooth talks the coach. But punctuality has never been one of Xavier’s virtues. Figures he’d pull a stunt like this on such a crucial first day.

Despite repeatedly telling myself that I can’t stand him, I scrutinize him through my binoculars. His helmet obscures his handsome face, but his athletic form is unmistakable. He’s built like a tank, all corded muscles and brute strength. Yet he moves with a quickness and agility that belies his size. Xavier Johnson is truly at the peak of physical perfection. Which, of course, he knows and exploits fully around charming fans and women alike.

Moving my attention back to my brother, I lean forward, unable to tear my gaze away as Jeff crouches down into position. The play is about to begin. His body coils like a spring, ready to launch. Come on, bro. You’ve got this. Show them what a Thompson can do.

The coach raises the whistle to his lips and blows. The shrill blast splits the air. Jeff explodes forward, legs pumping like pistons as he sprints down the field.

The quarterback launches the ball in a perfect spiraling arc. It slices through the humid air, a tiny speck against the cloudless sky. I hold my breath, willing it toward Jeff’s outstretched arms.

But the ball bounces off his fingertips, hitting the grass with a soft thud.

Jeff’s shoulders slump an inch before he composes himself. The other players shove each other good-naturedly, laughing. I wince in sympathy.

So close. An easy pass, one I’ve seen Jeff grab effortlessly thousands of times before. Maybe the first day pressure is getting to him.

I make a note on my clipboard to schedule a quick session with Jeff about managing performance anxiety. Besides helping my brother and my dad, I’m the team’s assistant psychologist. It’s my job to look out for the players’ mental wellbeing.

I watch Xavier reach up and remove his helmet, running a hand over his sweat-dampened hair. His expression is unreadable, but his stare remains fixed on Jeff. I can almost see the calculations running behind his dark eyes. He murmurs something to the coach next to him without ever looking away from my brother.

My fingers curl into fists. Don’t you dare judge my brother yet, Xavier Johnson. Jeff’s journey is only beginning. He just needs to get into a rhythm.

Truthfully though, I know Xavier’s assessment matters, especially as the team’s star player. The way his analytical gaze is dissecting Jeff reminds me uncomfortably of a lion sizing up weak prey separated from the herd. It’s that ruthlessly pragmatic part of Xavier that both thrills fans and causes problems behind the scenes. And it’s the same reason that I try to keep my distance as much as possible, despite the way I constantly find my eyes drawn to him.

So, I resolve to advise Jeff to make nice with Xavier. Maybe fetch him an energy drink or volunteer to carry his gear. Anything to win the approval, or at least the indifference, of the Thunderhawks’ star player.

Because as much as Xavier’s presence is a thorn in my side, the man holds a key. A key that could unlock futures, my brother’s included.

And, I fear, a key that could just as easily lock them away.

My phone shatters the air with its shrill ring, hijacking my concentration like a car alarm in the dead of night. A jolt to the system. I pick it up, fingers fumbling.

“Hello?”

Static hisses in my ear, drowning out any response. It’s like trying to hear a whisper in a windstorm. I speak louder this time, “Hello? Anyone there?”

Just as I’m about to give up and set the phone aside, a female voice splinters through the static.

“Am I speaking with Emma Thompson?”

I freeze, phone hovering above the desk. “Yes, you’re speaking to her. What’s going on?”

The voice sounds as if she’s talking through water, but I make out her next words like a hidden current, “Are you related to Charles Thompson?”

“He’s my father,” I reply, feeling as though I’m walking on a thin sheet of ice. The woman on the other end seems to pick up my caution, her voice taking on a taut quality.

“...Mercy Hospital… heart issues… critical condition…”

The phone nearly slips out of my sweaty grip. Blood drains from my face as if rushing to aid another part of my body. Dad. Hospital. Heart. It’s a reel of horror I can’t stop playing in my head.

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