Page 39 of Fair Catch
I met Riley’s skeptical gaze.
“Look, Coach called me into his office after the game. My grades are… well, they’re not looking great. If I want to remain active on the roster, I’m going to need help. And I know you could help me. And I,” I continued, shrugging. “I know what it takes mentally to play football — through the good and the bad. I can get you back on your game and show you how to work through times like tonight.”
“We have a mental health coach,” Riley argued. “I can just go see her.”
“Sure. You could. But would you open up to her? Would you be able to pinpoint what’s going on?”
She frowned. “Well, she’d help me figure it out.”
“Only if you were willing to open up. And let’s face it — you don’t open up to anyone.”
Riley frowned even more at that.
“I know you,” I said softly, touching her shin until she looked at me again. “I know what you’ve been through. I know you felt pressure tonight because Gavin was in the stands, and because our record so far seemed too good to be true. You were already planning to fail tonight, because life has taught you that any time things are going great, the other shoe will drop and everything will crash down around you. And I know that you put so much goddamn pressure on yourself to be perfect that the outcome has become your identity.”
Her eyes widened a bit more with everything I said, her breaths more and more erratic.
“When you’re performing well, you’re happy and amazing. When you mess up even the tiniest bit, you feel worthless and like an imposter.”
Her lips parted, and I knew I’d nailed her down.
“Right now, you’re probably overanalyzing everything about tonight — the way you lined up for your kick, your skip-jog up, the placement of the ball, the way you made contact. You’re wondering if you should change something, or everything, because clearly it isn’t working. But that’s a lie, Novo — it does work. It has worked ninety-nine percent of the time. Consistency, that’s what we want. Not perfection. And I can help you shrug this off and get back to performing the way I know you can.”
She looked as though I’d just stripped off every piece of my clothing, her little mouth open in a gape as she blinked a few times before zipping it shut.
“So… you help me on the field, I help you with schoolwork,” she finally said.
I nodded.
Riley rolled her lips together, sitting back against the pillows and shaking her head like it was a ridiculous idea. But then her eyes flicked to me, and she swallowed.
“What do you have to lose?” I asked.
She considered, and then with her brows folding inward, she simply nodded.
I gave a short nod in response, picking up her ankle again to work on her Achilles. “We start tomorrow.”
Riley
“Stop trying to change your steps.”
Zeke’s voice was firm, but level, the way that of a wise old grandfather might be.
And still, it pissed me off.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You just did four medium steps again when you usually do two big steps.”
“I’m still lined up in the same spot.”
“No, you’re not. You’re overstretching your stride.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m tired. We should call it.”
“You going to call it during a game?”
I pinned him with a homicidal scowl that answered for me, but Zeke just smirked, cocking a brow.
“Get mad at me all you want. You’ll be mad when it’s game time, too. But you’re trying to make changes where none need to be made.”
“The results of Saturday’s game would beg to differ.”
He walked over, planting a hand on my shoulder and leveling his gaze with mine. “Your brain is on fire with anxiety right now, okay? And you have to fight not to listen to it.”
I loosened a sigh, knowing he was right even though I’d never admit it out loud.
“Again, you tie your worthiness to outcome instead of input. When you’re doing well, you feel great. When you mess up, you feel like shit. Therefore, when you had a bad game, your brain went into you’re a failure mode. Now, it’s trying to get you to fix what’s not even broken, because it wasn’t your set up or your steps that missed those kicks.” He tapped my temple. “It was your mental block.”
“But maybe if I—”
“If you start changing what has worked for you for years, you’re only going to end up more frustrated because it’s going to feel like nothing you try works. Consistency. Persistence.” He waited until I looked him in the eye again. “Execution.”
He raised his brows with a little nod, waiting until I returned it so he knew I understood. Then, he squeezed my shoulder and stepped back, jogging over out of the way to let me try again.
