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The last time I was in a place like this, I was fifteen years old and had just broken some jackass’s nose in high school. After a full week of suspension, the school only let me back in after myparents proved that I was getting help to deal with my spurts of uncontrollable anger.
Yeah, that had been a bottle of laughs.
All banged up and bruised under my flannel shirt, I had to sit in a shrink’s office telling him that my life was fine and dandy when, in reality, it was hell on earth. I had to pretend that the reason I picked so many fights was out of sheer boredom. The lies I told in the room were goddamn Oscar-worthy, and I couldn’t wait until the hour passed just to get out of there.
Always fearing I’d end up saying the wrong thing.
Something that I’d inevitably have to pay for later.
It’s ironic that even now, as a full-grown adult, I still have that same anxious feeling of needing to bolt out of the door before it’s too late. Before someone sees the truth.
That I’m broken beyond repair.
At least there isn’t anyone waiting in the reception area to see me sweat. Not that it matters. I know how this shit works.
Even though my meetings with the in-house shrink are supposed to be confidential, I’m sure by the end of the day, everyone in the club will know I’m in therapy.
Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was tomorrow’s headline on every sports paper.
That’s the whole point, asshole.
For people to believe you’re working on your anger issues.
Fuck.
I wonder how many sessions I’ll have to suffer through to ensure I get this damn bull’s eye off my back.
When the door to the shrink’s office opens, I immediately spring to my feet.
Guess I’m about to find out.
Showtime.
“Nathan?” A woman with amber eyes hidden behind wide, black-framed glasses calls out.
“Hmm,” I grunt in greeting.
“Nice to finally meet you. Please, come on in.” She smiles warmly, ushering me in.
Begrudgingly, I do as she says, ignoring the starstruck glare from her receptionist.
When I walk into her office, my heart leaps to my throat at the sight of the large leather couch at the center of the room.
Yeah.
I’m not lying down on that shit.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she says, walking over to a beige armchair.
I follow her lead and sit opposite her in a vacant armchair, forgoing the inquisition-like couch.
She places a notebook and pen on her lap, her stare fixated on me.
“So, Nathan, would you like to start by telling me what brings you here this afternoon?”
“Shouldn’t you know that shit already?” I quip back and kick myself for being so damn short-tempered with her right off the bat.
I need this woman to tell Coach Byrne and the GM how I’m not that fucked up in the head to be a liability to the team, and here I am swinging and missing on my very first sentence to the woman.
