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Hence the rage in my heart.
Or one of the reasons why I’m feeling pissed off right now.
I watch him carefully cut a piece of his steak.
It’s well-done and disgusting.
I don’t know how he’s eating that. But then again, he asked for well-done and disgusting. I didn’t and still got that.
Maybe I should punch the waiter the next time he comes over to top up my water.
For now, I leave my own steak untouched and opt for the scotch. “About what?”
It’s a bullshit question.
I know what he’s asking me. I’m just trying to stall.
No actually, I’m trying to be a shithead.
A difficult motherfucking shithead. And a pain in the ass.
I think it’s fair.
Because it’s not as if Gio is being a ray of sunshine right now.
Or even for the past few days, ever since I left New York and moved back to Bardstown for a bit.
He’s acting like it’s my fault, this move. As if I actually want to be here.
For the record, I don’t. I fucking hate this town. I always did. Even though when I lived here, I was a king. A god.
A soccer god.
People worshipped the ground I walked on. They looked at me with awe. They groveled and bowed as I walked by. Which was all great. I’m not going to deny that I didn’t love all the attention. But still it was a town that suffocated me. And there are reasons for that.
Three reasons that I’m not going to get into right now.
Suffice it to say, moving back wasn’t something I’d planned to do. But here I am.
“About your sessions.” Then, looking up at me, he adds, “Mandatory sessions.”
Okay, that was deliberate.
Mandatory.
The word and that look.
Like I’m fucking ten years old and need to be punished for something I did on the playground. Which I have to admit has happened. A million times when I was in school.
But that’s neither here nor there.
What’s here is the fact that my own agent thinks that he needs to have a conversation with me about my mandatory sessions. Or rather my agent has been sent to have a conversation with me about my mandatory sessions.
So to piss him off even more — and by extension, the one who wants him to spy on me — I say, “It didn’t work out.”
He pauses in the process of cutting another piece and looks at me. “What?”
I take a long gulp of my scotch. “You need to find someone else.”
At this, he puts his cutlery down. “Are you fucking serious?”
I don’t bother replying to that and instead take another long drink of my scotch.
He sits back. “You’re fucking serious.”
This time, I throw him a bone and give him a shrug.
Mostly to just piss him off further.
His bushy brows snap together. “This is the second time. This is the second fucking time that you’ve fired your therapist.”
“She preferred counselor. As opposed to therapist,” I murmur unhelpfully.
“What’s the difference?”
“Fuck if I know.” I raise my eyebrows. “Just one of the reasons why I fired her.”
“Yeah, what’s the other reason?”
“Her office smelled like cheese.”
“And?”
“Cheese makes me angry.” Another shrug. “Which I thought was defeating the purpose of me being there.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re really starting to piss me off, kiddo.”
I take another unhurried sip of my liquor. “Then may I suggest anger management therapy? Can’t say it did me any good but there’s no harm in trying, yeah?”
He breathes out sharply.
Ah, finally.
Some relief from my incessant anger.
But it only lasts a few seconds because Gio speaks, in a quiet voice. “You know, people warned me about you.”
And just like that, the itch comes back.
I flex my toes and my fingers. I grit my teeth.
Restless.
My tone is nonchalant though. For now. “Yeah?”
He gives me a small nod. “About your temperament. Your behavior.”
“Can’t imagine what they had to say.” I look him in the eyes. “I’m a fucking delight.”
“They told me there’s a reason why you’re called the Angry Thorn.”
When I was a kid, I used to watch this cartoon. Can’t remember what it was called but there was this guy on it. Usually, he was mellow and easy-going, an insurance salesman. But any time someone said the word ‘papaya’ he’d blow up. He’d lose his easy-going persona and transform into an eggplant-colored muscled monster, breathing fire and breaking things with his bare hands.
It was hilarious as fuck.
And even if no one can ever accuse me of being mellow and easy-going, completely relatable.
Because as soon as someone utters my soccer nickname — something they coined back in high school — I want to scratch the itch and smash every bone in their body.
Just to prove them right.
My fingers are curled tight around the tumbler as my own voice goes quiet. “Is that so?”
“There’s a reason why no one else was willing to sign you,” he goes on. “Even though you had the potential to be a first round draft pick. Just like your big brother.”
