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Fuck.
Hockey is my life.
It’s all I fucking have.
Not once did I think that my dreams of playing in one of the most prestigious teams in the league could be so easily snatched out of my hands because some douchebags tried to get handsy with a stranger at a bar.
They are the pricks who need therapy to learn how to be fucking decent human beings, not me.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck!
I already know how this is going to play out if I say yes to counseling.
It’s not like it’s my first rodeo laying on a therapist’s couch. I had plenty of practice with it growing up. And the only thing I learned from those experiences is that some things are best not talked about and left in the past. But shrinks love to poke around a person’s brain and bring up all sorts of traumas they can find just for the hell of it. And when they find something that fits their fancy, they poke and poke at the scab until an old, forgotten wound feels as fresh as the day the first cut was made.
Sadistic fucks.
But it’s not like Coach has given me many options though.
It’s either that or have my ass kicked off of the team.
When it finally hits me that Coach Byrne isn’t giving me a choice, but a fucking ultimatum, I swallow dryly and make the one decision I never thought I’d have to make in my adult life.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Coach Byrne’s face instantly lights up as if me agreeing to therapy has suddenly cured every ailment he’s ever had.
“You made the right decision, son. The best decision.” He beams like he’s never been prouder of me.
‘Doubtful,’ I think to myself, but I still nod in agreement and force what I hope constitutes a smile.
“I’ll email you Doctor Seymour’s details so you can book your first session. Like I said, she’s one of the best in this business,” he explains with a relieved sigh.
Just by the high-praised way Coach talks about this shrink tells me that he must have dipped his toe into her shark-infested waters at some point. I wouldn’t be surprised if my name came up in their therapy sessions, which doesn’t bode well for me if she is already prejudiced against me.
“In no time at all, I’m sure she’ll be able to work out all those kinks and rough edges of yours,” he adds with a sincere smile.
The nonchalant way that Coach talks about me getting therapy sounds awfully like an old car needing a tune-up by a mechanic. I doubt the human brain is as easy to figure out as a carburetor.
If only it were that simple.
Just a bolt here, a spark plug there, and voila, you’re done.
But I know for a fact that my issues won’t be so easily fixed, no matter how optimistic Coach is.
“Is there anything else you need from me, Coach?” I ask, needing to get the hell out of this office and go back to feeling normal.
I missed half of my gym time as it is, which means I’ll be a walking-stiff on the ice for today’s practice. That’s unacceptable to me, and it should be unacceptable to Coach, too, but apparently, the only muscles he wants worked out are attached to my brain.
“Yeah, Nate. We’re good. You can leave.” He waves off with a disappointed frown, sensing that my head is already elsewhere on the ice and not on his new favorite topic of discussion.
With a curt nod, I stand up and head towards the door like a bat out of hell. Unfortunately, Coach stops me in my tracks by calling out my name just as my hand is about to hit the doorknob to make my great escape.
So close.
