Page 3 of The Rookie's Sister

You bet I love you guys right back.

It should’ve been business as usual—same rhythmic drills, same hyped-up fans, same electric aura in the atmosphere. I mean, I practically grew up in this stadium. But today, there’s a plot twist—Emma Thompson.

She arrived a few weeks back, trailing her little brother Jeff like a protective hawk. The kid’s decent, aspiring to be a wide receiver. With some polishing, he might just make the team. But Emma? She’s classified as a “new variable” in my life equation. Official title: Assistant Sports Psychology Consultant. As if we need another head doctor messing with our game.

Why does she have to be so distracting? I mean, I’ve always got my game face on, but now I find myself stealing glances her way. She stands by the sideline, ever the diligent scribe, her fingers dancing across her clipboard like she’s composing a magnum opus. The tilt of her sunglasses lends her an enigmatic aura, as if she’s deliberately blurring the line between observer and participant.

The whistle trills through the air, signaling the start of passing drills. This is my moment, my theater act where I leave the audience in awe. I square my shoulders, ready to unleash the cannon. But there she is again, an unwelcome interruption in my peripheral vision. She stands rigidly, as if she’s guarding secrets instead of stats. And it’s not just her physical stance; there’s something about her—maybe it’s the fierce cascade of blonde hair, or perhaps the way she wears that fitted blouse as if it’s her armor.

Snap out of it, Xavier.

Okay, so she’s attractive. Big deal. She’s also been riding me about proper sleep schedules and hydration, as if I haven’t been doing this for years. I’ve got bigger fish to fry than worrying about impressing a sports psychologist with her all-too-critical clipboard.

I inhale deeply, recalibrating. Focus on what you’re here for. You’ve got an audience in desperate need of awe and admiration. Their screams are your oxygen, their applause your lifeblood. Deliver the spectacle they came for. Be the Xavier Johnson everyone expects you to be.

But I can’t shake off a nagging thought: If Emma Thompson happens to look up from her clipboard and actually likes what she sees?

Well, I wouldn’t mind that one bit.

Coach blows the whistle and I burst forward, fingers outstretched. The ball sails through the air in a perfect spiral, landing smack in my hands. Gotcha. I tuck it in tight and make a beeline for the end zone, pumping my legs into a graceful gallop.

Right as I cross the line, I toss the ball aside and turn toward the stands, arms raised triumphantly. The fans go wild, but I barely hear them over the pounding in my ears. Instead, I search for another reaction, one in particular. Where is she?

There—on the line, Emma stands with crossed arms. Even with the distance between us, I can imagine the lift of her eyebrows above the rims of those chic sunglasses. Was that a tiny smile I saw flash across her face? Hard to tell from here.

I hope she realizes that bomb of a catch was for her benefit. Xavier Johnson, delivering as promised.

I linger for a moment longer, waiting to lock eyes, to exchange even a glance of mutual understanding. But Emma’s face remains angled down at her clipboard as she jots notes, seemingly oblivious to my maneuver.

Irritation simmers in my chest. Look up and acknowledge me, damn it. I know you saw that catch. Why won’t you react?

Maybe she’s playing it cool, avoiding feeding my ego. Or perhaps her little brother’s struggles have occupied all her attention, causing her to miss my skills.

Speaking of which, my gaze drifts to the rookie. Even with his helmet on, his body language screams dejection—shoulders slumped, feet shuffling aimlessly. The complete opposite of my perfect form.

I watch his next rep, analyzing his sloppy footwork and weak cuts. Mediocre at best. Not starter material, that’s for sure. The kid has heart, I’ll give him that, but raw talent only gets you so far.

If he doesn’t shape up soon, this could become a real problem. The franchise can’t afford to waste a coveted wide receiver spot on an unreliable rookie. Not when the season starts in a month.

I need to talk with Coach about getting Jeff extra conditioning reps. We have to nip this in the bud before it costs the team wins and me stats.

Then again, maybe I should talk to Jeff directly first. Appeal to that eager puppy dog nature he seems to have.

Show Emma that I don’t just look out for myself out here.

Yes, reaching out to help her struggling brother could be the perfect way into Emma’s good graces. And if it improves the team’s performance in the process, it’s a win-win.

The whistle screeches again and we all gravitate to the water coolers for a break. Now’s my chance. I remove my helmet and approach Jeff with what I hope looks like a friendly, supportive smile.

“Hey, rookie. Spare a sec?”

Jeff looks up, startled, his eyes wide, mirroring the brown warmth I’ve seen in Emma’s. “Uh, sure, Xavier. What’s up?”

I toss him a water bottle. “Look, no need to make this a big deal, but I saw your footwork earlier. It’s a little...in development.”

He colors immediately, looking like a spilled glass of red wine. “Yeah, still figuring out the new routes.”

I pat him gently on the arm. “Hey, the key is to let your feet memorize the dance steps, right? Keep your shoulders in line till it’s time to veer off. You’ll get there.”

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