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I dig the knuckles deeper into my jittery thighs and say, “Ours did. It happened.”
“Yes. But what happened?”
The bugs have started to sting me now. They’ve started to bite at me. And I’m seriously considering smashing something.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“I think it’s extremely relevant,” she insists. “You broke up and that’s what has caused everything, so again, what happened to break you guys up?”
You know what, it’s not going to be my fault.
If I do break her table, I mean.
It’s not going to be my fault that Dr. Lola Bernstein is going to lose her glass coffee table and that little cactus she has sitting on it. Because she’s the one asking stupid questions.
Questions that have no bearing on why I’m here.
“How much is that coffee table?” I ask, tipping my chin at it.
She frowns again but this one is lighter. “Why?”
I shrug, cracking my neck slightly. “It’s extremely…” Breakable. “Attractive.”
“You like it?”
I open and close my fists. “Yeah. As attractive as the rest of your office.”
She looks around the office. “I thought you hated it. You didn’t look too happy when you sat down on my couch.”
“I don’t hate your couch. I love your couch. And I love pink. Pink is my favorite.”
She takes her smile one step further. She turns it into a low laugh. “Now I definitely know you’re kidding. Pink cannot be your favorite. Because your mouth is saying one thing and your face is saying something else altogether.”
"What is my face saying?”
“That you’re angry.”
I curl one side of my mouth into a tight smirk. “Huh. And here I thought your job was to not make me angry.”
“My job isn’t to not make you angry. My job is to fix the problem that’s causing the anger.”
“Well, then you should really think about redecorating your office. And not asking questions that have nothing to do with anything.”
“So you don’t like being asked questions?”
“Not particularly, no.”
She nods. “What about them pisses you off, exactly?”
“The fact that they’re stupid and irrelevant.”
She hums and this time she writes something in her notebook.
“What the fuck are you writing?” I can’t help but ask.
She parts her lips in an O. “Was that a question?”
“That’s definitely not an answer.”
She laughs again.
I just lose it then.
Because her laughter is loud. Her jewelry is even louder.
And I can’t control my temper when my skin is crawling and my body is tight and I have this urge to break her furniture.
“I don’t think this is going to work out,” I clip.
“Why do you think that?”
Another stupid question.
“Because I don’t think you understand what your job is.”
“Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Your job is to give me tools to curb my anger. That’s it. That’s all. You tell me a few little tricks that I can use to get rid of this anger so I can go back to playing the game that I’m good at. That’s your job description.”
She purses her lips. “I don’t think it works that way.”
“Well then, you’re no use to me.” I spring up from my seat, my body all hot and tight, and glance around her office. I focus on the degree that’s hanging on her wall. “You should take that down. And probably ask for a refund from Harvard. Given the circumstances, you should be eligible for one.”
That’s all I say to her before I storm out of her pink fucking office.
I’m going to have to call my manager and have him arrange my appointments with someone else. Someone more competent and professional.
Someone who doesn’t ask stupid questions. Someone who doesn’t talk about things I don’t want to talk about.
Why does she want to know what happened anyway? It happened.
End of fucking story.
It happened and it almost destroyed my life and my career. And now I’m stuck here, teaching a bunch of schoolgirls who know nothing about soccer instead of being where I belong.
With the team, winning games.
So I need someone who can help me get there, rather than stoke my anger and make things worse.
After leaving the therapist’s office, I ride over to the sports club that my dad used to go to. They have a private area where I can practice my drills and no one will bother me or talk to me about my disastrous injury.
I run. I do weights. I fucking run again.
I do everything I can to get rid of this violent streak that Dr. Lola Bernstein has evoked in me.
When exercising doesn’t do me any good, I decide to ride to St. Mary’s and work on my joke of a job. Maybe there are books that can make it easier, that can teach me how to teach girls who giggle at everything I say and bat their eyelashes at me like I’ve got any fucking interest in their schoolgirl antics.
So I go to the library in search of a textbook or something, anything to take my mind off what a shitshow my life has become.
