Chapter Text
Boston feels like a city that’s always holding its breath. The air is cool, sharp and salty, the kind that turns your cheeks pink before you’ve even had your coffee.
I drove through the winding streets from Boston to Foxborough, listening to a playlist to hopefully help calm the first-day nerves. As I parked in the employee parking lot, I hyped myself up before getting out of the car. On the passenger seat sits my brand-new employee badge: DR. ISABEL CONKLIN, SPORTS PSYCHOLOGY.
Seeing my name printed that way still feels strange. When I finally step out of the car, the late-September air nips at my face, crisp and relentless. The sky is a pale gray today, the kind that feels like it could rain at any second.
Inside the facility, the halls are all steel and glass, lined with framed photos of past championships and glossy magazine covers. The red, white, and blue colors adorn the hallways and decorations, and it’s a sort of pride that rings through the building, being part of the New England Patriots organization.
I pass one of the team’s media interns, who offers me a distracted smile before disappearing into a conference room. Everyone here moves fast. Focused. Unbothered.
Dr. Hastings, my supervisor, meets me in the hallway outside of the team offices. Her stride is confident, her coffee already half gone. Her silver hair is tied back into a small bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s smiling.
“Welcome to day one, Dr. Conklin,” she says. “You’ll be shadowing me throughout the week to get a feel for things. We'll have intake meetings, film sessions, whatever the players might need. We handle everything from rehab support to performance anxiety to personal adjustment.”
I nod, tucking my hair behind my ear, “I’m ready.”
She hands me a tablet with the week’s schedule.
“You’ll meet with a few key players over the next month. We’re still finalizing assignments. One in particular could use someone new with a bright, calm energy. I think you’ll be a good fit.”
I scroll through the roster she’s pulled up and see names, stats, brief notes.
And then I see it:
FISHER, CONRAD – QB. Shoulder rehab & focus work.
The breath leaves my lungs before I can stop it. I should have remembered he played for the Patriots, but I’ve sort of put everything about Conrad Fisher in a little box locked away. It’s been years since I’ve seen that name written anywhere near mine. Years since I last saw him.
Dr. Hastings keeps walking, oblivious, “He’s coming off a rough off-season. Smart guy, but he’s hard on himself. Used to be at Stanford and was a biology major, I think? He’ll probably resist the process at first, but he’ll come around.”
I force my voice steady, “Sounds like a challenge.”
She smiles faintly, “That’s what makes the job interesting.”
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of introductions and acronyms. I meet an athletic trainer named Casey who offers me gum and tells me that the cafeteria cookies are “life-changing” and a nutritionist who talks faster than anyone I’ve ever met.
By the time noon hits, I’ve memorized half the layout and lost all feeling in my feet. I grab lunch and sit outside near the empty practice field. It’s quiet out here, peaceful. The goalposts cast long shadows on the grass, and there are a few workers milling about. It’s impossible not to imagine him out there.
The last time I saw Conrad Fisher, he wasn’t anyone’s quarterback yet. He was just a boy sitting beside me on the porch at Cousins Beach, his hair too long, his hands wrapped around a drink instead of a football. He used to talk about life like it was a test he hadn’t studied enough for, always thinking and always carrying something unspoken.
And now, here he is. Or rather, here I am, and I’m about to walk into a version of his world. I trace the rim of my drink, staring out at the turf. I’m not sure if it’s dread or anticipation that is sitting heavy in my stomach.
The rest of the afternoon goes much the same way as the morning. After work, I drive back towards Boston. The late-September sun is already sinking behind the trees, turning the sky gold and soft. My apartment is a short walk from Steven and Taylor’s. Steven has been working as a video game designer for a few years now, and Taylor at a Boston PR firm. They’d been my only constants when I moved here after grad school.
Taylor greets me at their door, wearing an oversized sweatshirt.
“You survived your first day!” she says, pulling me in.
“Barely,” I said, kicking off my flats, “Do all sports professionals speak in acronyms? Because I understood about half of what they said.”
Steven calls from the kitchen, “You’ll get used to it.”
I grin and drop into the couch, “Coming from a guy who just spent six months coding a digital fantasy goat.”
“Excuse me,” he says, pointing his spatula at me, “That goat is the emotional core of our game.”
Taylor laughs, curling up next to me, “You like it there, though?”
“I think so,” I say and pause, “It’s… intense. Everyone’s laser-focused.”
Steven sets down plates of pasta and shrugs, “That’s Boston sports for you. What position’s your first client?”
“Quarterback,” I say before I can stop myself. Then quieter, I say, “Conrad Fisher.”
Steven blinks. “Conrad? Like, Conrad Fisher? From Cousins?”
Taylor’s head whips toward me, “You’re kidding.”
I shake my head, pushing the pasta around on my plate.
“His name was on my roster list, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
Taylor grins, the kind that’s half teasing, half protective, “Oh my god. The universe really said, ‘let’s make Belly’s life complicated again.’”
“Don’t start,” I groan, covering my face.
“I’m just saying,” she sings, “The last time his name came up, you spent three nights on my door room floor listening to sad Taylor Swift songs.”
“Okay, we’re not doing this,” I mutter.
Steven smirks, “Relax, Belly. It’s just work, you’ll be fine.”
I want to believe him. But later that night, when I’m home again and lying in bed with the faint noise of traffic outside my window, my mind won’t stop replaying the sound of his name.
Conrad Fisher.
I wonder if he’ll remember me. I wonder if I want him to.
If someone told me the first week of working in professional sports would feel like running a marathon I didn’t train for, I would’ve laughed.
But standing on the edge of the Patriots practice field at seven in the morning with a clipboard in hand, damp air curling my hair and trying not to trip over a loose cable, I finally understood.
Football at this level is like a living thing. It breathes, it shouts, it surges. There’s a rhythm to it, one I’m still trying to learn. Technically, I’m here to observe. Dr. Hastings told me to “get a feel for the players’ mental patterns,” which sounded simple enough until I realized that it meant watching seventy grown men collide with each other before breakfast.
The sound is what gets me. It’s the heavy thud of pads, the sharp whistle, the coaches’ clipped commands slicing through the cool morning air. I sip on the Dunkin’ coffee I picked up in the drive in from Boston, already lukewarm at this point. The stadium looms behind the facility, massive and gleaming. I should be focused. That’s what I tell myself every thirty seconds. But there’s one player that I can’t help noticing, and my eyes keep finding him like they’re pulled by gravity.
Number 8.
He’s taller than I remember. Broader, I’d say, too. His red practice jersey is damp with sweat, and every movement he makes seems intentional and controlled. When he calls a play, his voice cuts clean through the air. He doesn’t need to shout, people just seem to listen to him.
The second I let myself recognize him, the him that isn’t just a quarterback but Conrad Fisher, my pulse betrays me. It’s been years. The last time I saw him, we were teenagers standing on the porch in Cousins, the ocean behind us and silence between us. I haven’t thought about that day in a long time. At least, not out loud. Now here he is, fifty feet away, looking like someone I used to know and someone I’ve never met all at once.
He throws effortlessly, because of course he does. The ball sails across the field, a perfect spiral that lands neatly in a receiver’s hands. A whistle blows, someone shouts, and the coaches all cheer. And for a second, he smiles. That smile that I’d know anywhere. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there. The sight hits me harder than it should.
“Fisher,” Dr. Hastings says beside me, not looking up from her tablet. “One of the most analytical players I’ve ever worked with. In his head a lot.”
I nod, trying to seem neutral. “He’s recovering from the shoulder injury, right?”
“Mmhmm,” she says as she scrolls through her notes, “He’s ahead of schedule, but the mind always takes longer than the body.”
I glance back at the field. Conrad adjusts his helmet, stretching his arm in a slow, practiced motion. I can see the faint hesitation when he tests the throw again; it’s subtle, but it’s there.
“He’s… really good,” I say carefully.
Dr. Hastings hums, “Good doesn’t cover it. He’s the franchise and he has a ridiculously high football IQ. But emotionally?” She shrugs, “He keeps it all locked up.”
I swallow, “You think he’ll open up in session?”
She looks at me then, curious. “Oh, he won’t. Not at first. You’ll sit in on his evaluation on Monday. That’ll be your first chance.”
My first chance. I scribble something in my notebook just to avoid looking obvious. “Understood.”
Dr. Hastings studies me for a second longer than feels comfortable. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Dr. Conklin.”
“Just impressed,” I say quickly, “It’s different seeing it up close.”
She smiles faintly, turning back towards the players, “You’ll get used to it.”
She moves off to talk to one of the assistant coaches, leaving me standing there with my clipboard as I pretend not to stare. But when I glance back across the field, Conrad has his helmet off. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, with a few strands sticking to his forehead. He’s laughing at something one of his teammates said with an easy, unguarded laugh that looks foreign on him.
And then, as if drawn by the same invisible string, he looks up. Our eyes meet.
It’s only a second, maybe two. But time bends around it, and the sounds of the field fade to a low hum. His expression shifts as recognition flickers across his face. It’s subtle, and he’s startled, and then it’s gone. He looks away first. I force myself to breathe, to move, to write something, anything, on my clipboard, but the words blur. After all of this time, I thought I’d buried that version of myself, the girl who used to love him quietly, hopelessly, with her whole heart.
Apparently, though, she’s still there.
By the time practice ends, the sun has climbed high enough to burn off the morning fog. Players scatter towards the locker room, voices echoing through the tunnel. I linger at the edge of the field, watching the last few stragglers.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and it’s a text from Taylor.
Taylor: Dinner again tonight. You’re not allowed to say no. Steven’s cooking again.
I smile, grateful for the excuse to think about anything else.
The drive back to Boston feels shorter than usual, though my mind drifts the whole way. The highway curves past the trees, the air crisp and sweet with fall. It’s my favorite time of year.
I park outside of my apartment, grabbing my bags from my car before heading up the steps. I unlock my door, and drop my bag on the couch, hanging up my keys on the small hook next to the door.
I pull my hair into a messy bun and sit at the kitchen counter with my laptop. The cursor blinks as it waits for me to start writing my notes from practice.
Finally, I type:
Observation: Fisher, Conrad. Quarterback. Displays visible confidence, situational control, mild shoulder hesitation on long throws. Emotional detachment possible. Functional but potentially isolating.
I pause, tapping my finger against the counter. I add another line:
Patient exhibits signs of internalized performance pressure. Recommend focus on trust restoration.
By the time I get to Taylor and Steven’s apartment that evening, I’ve convinced myself to stop overthinking it.
Their apartment is all exposed brick and mismatched furniture, the kind of space that looks effortless even though I know Taylor spent months making it that way.
“You look exhausted,” she says as she opens the door, handing me a glass of wine.
“I feel it,” I admit, “Today was long.”
“Tell me everything,” she says, “And don’t skip the part about the hot players.”
I laugh, sinking into the couch cushions, “You know I can’t talk about that. Confidentiality.”
“Right,” she says, smirking, “But hypothetically…”
“Taylor.”
“Fine, fine,” she says, raising her hands in mock surrender. “But you’re glowing a little. You sure it was just work?”
Before I can answer, Steven appears from the kitchen, “It’s probably just the wine.”
I laugh.
I can smell Steven’s food, and it smells incredible.
“Steven, the food smells amazing,” I say.
“Jeremiah helped,” Steven says proudly, “He and Denise came by earlier. Apparently he’s perfecting some recipes and gave me some pointers.”
I laugh softly, “Of course he did. How’s he doing?”
“Good,” Steven says, “Busy. He’s running the kitchen at that new place in Cambridge. You should drop by sometime, you haven’t seen him in years. Denise has been helping out with the design of the place, too.”
“Of course she is,” I say. “That’s so them – the Fisher brothers both ending up successful.”
Taylor smirks as she takes a sip of her wine.
At dinner, they talk about work; Steven’s new game prototype, Taylor’s PR firm, and their upcoming campaign for a Boston fashion brand. I listen, half-present and half caught in the haze of earlier: the field, the sounds, and the look on Conrad’s face.
Eventually, Taylor nudges me. “Are you okay, Belly? You’ve been staring into your dinner for like, five minutes.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly, “Long day.”
“You sure that’s all?” she teases.
I meet her gaze, and for a moment, I consider telling her. Telling both of them. About the field, about seeing Conrad again, about how that single moment felt like someone flipped a switch I didn’t realize was still connected. But then Steven cracks a joke, and the conversation moves on, and I let it. I don’t know how to explain it to them yet, not without sounding like I’m sixteen again and hopelessly in love with a boy who never quite looked back the same way.
When I get home that night, the city is quiet. I kick off my shoes, light a candle, and curl up on the couch with my tea. The clock on the stove reads 11:07. Outside, headlights streak across the wet pavement, and you can hear the faint sound of jazz music through an open window.
I try to write more notes, but my thoughts keeps slipping.
He looked at me.
Just once. It was clearly enough to undo years of carefully stacked distance.
I close my laptop and lean my head back against the couch.
In three days, he’ll walk into my office. He’ll sit across from me.
And I’ll have to pretend that I’m just his psychologist and not the girl who once waited on the beach for him to say something he never did.