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She glares at me, and her knuckles drain of color from gripping the pen so hard. “You’re here because of the fight with Dean Crawford.”
“Technically,” I say, one finger raised in the air, “I’m here because I knocked out a linesman after the fight ended.”
“Let me rephrase,” she says. “Was your fight with Dean Crawford personal?”
“Fine,” I groan. “Yes, Dean did something to me. And he did deserve it. Are you satisfied?”
I flash one of my boyish grins that make women melt every time. Except it doesn’t work on Dr. Devine. She looks even more irritated as if that were possible. We won’t make it two months together. Why did Tom have to choose her? Of all the doctors in D.C., they could have picked anyone. I’m not spilling my life story to a woman I don’t know, a woman who looks like she wants to stab me with her pen and fuck me at the same time.
“Look, Doc,” I say. “I can’t tell you the real reason. It’s personal.”
“That’s why we’re here,” she hedges. “I can help you channel your anger into something more… useful.”
It takes every ounce of my willpower not to laugh. “How can I make my anger useful?”
“We have to start at the source,” she says. “It will take some time—“
“We have plenty of that,” I shoot back with a wicked smirk.
“That we do.” Seconds that feel like minutes pass before she says, “How about we start over? Take me back to the night of the fight. What did you do before the game?”
“Same as usual,” I admit.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Which is?”
“I usually find someplace less crowded, like a hallway or even a bathroom, and watch a few clips of some old Western movies on my phone.”
Her face is unreadable. Most people think I’m a weirdo when I tell them I like Western movies. She doesn’t even crack as much as a cocky smile. It’s the standard shrink-face, the mask doctors wear around their patients.
She looks down for a few seconds to scribble notes onto her pad. I would love to know what she’s writing about. Dr. Devine looks up at me, her face giving away nothing. Her bright blue eyes hold mine.
“Does watching Westerns relax you?”
“Yes.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You think it’s weird, don’t you?”
“I don’t judge my patients.”
I lean forward, digging my elbows into my thighs. “What if I’d said I watch porn before games because it relaxes me?”
“Whatever works,” she says, doing her best to keep her tone level, though her voice sounds a little shaky.
“Do you like porn, Doc?” I wiggle my eyebrows to taunt her. “Does it relax you? Excite you?” My lips curve into a wicked grin. “Does it turn you on?”
I love toying with her, watching her squirm like she’s trying to do to me.
“We’re not here to talk about me.” She taps her pen on her thigh. “How did you get into Westerns?”
“My dad loves John Wayne.”
“Is that why you go by Duke?”
I nod. “You know your Westerns, huh?”
She shrugs. “My grandfather was a fan.”
The Duke was John Wayne’s nickname. My dad called me Duke one day, and it stuck after a while.
“What else do you do to prepare for a game?”
