Page 97 of Just Say Yes

Still dressed in practice gear, Jack was streaked in mud and was using the cleats brush by the door to wipe off his practice shoes.

Straddling a bench near my locker, I tossed my phone aside.

“You played well out there today. I think if we run the second play a few more times, it’ll go a lot smoother.” I was intentionally ignoring Jack’s dig about my head being up my ass. He wasn’t wrong. I had been distracted the entire practice.

I knew better than to let her invade my head like this. Rugby was my constant, my anchor, but lately MJ had become the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about.

And that scared the hell out of me.

We had a few days before we were headed out of town for a match, and the coach was getting antsy about our lackluster performances. I hated to admit that I was part of the problem.

“We’re reviewing tape tonight and then getting food. You in?” Jack stripped off his practice jersey and tossed it into the large laundry bin.

I looked at the clock.

Shit.

It was two hours back to Outtatowner. I had just promised MJ I’d get dinner with her at her sister’s place.

I had started to come up with an excuse when the locker room door opened. Our assistant coach held the door with his palm. “Brown. Coach wants a word.”

I gritted my teeth and stood.

“Oohhh,” Jack teased.

“Fuck off,” I mumbled, tossing a sweaty sock in his direction.

If Coach wanted to talk with me, it was either to deliver praise or come down on me. Given my lackluster practice, I prepared for the latter as I walked to his office.

Coach’s door was open when I reached it, but I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe to announce my arrival. His head lifted and he waved me inside.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked.

Coach removed the cap from his pen. “How’s the knee feeling?”

Like shit.

I straightened my shoulders. “I’m not worried about it.”

“And your head?”

Besides the ringing in my ear? Perfect.

“Clean bill of health from the doctors.”

He nodded and wrote something down on the legal pad next to him. He exhaled and looked at me from across his desk. His hands folded in front of him. “Then what is your excuse for that practice today?”

“Sir?”

He raised his brows. We both knew I knew exactly what he was talking about. I’d called the wrong plays, I’d bobbled the ball, and cement had filled my cleats.

I cleared my throat. “I’ve been ... distracted.” My hand circled the side of my head. “Just a lot going on right now.”

He stared hard. “It’s not the yips, is it?”

Fuck, I hope not.

In professional sports,the yipscould permanently end your career. I’d seen athletes from golf to baseball to hockey suddenly, inexplicably, lose their ability to function. Research said it was purely psychological, but when you lost your ability to perform basic skills, you were done for.

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