Page 13

I show up to therapy thirty minutes early because I’m a masochist who likes to watch Chelsea panic through her office window.

She’s arranging and rearranging papers on her desk, checking her watch every thirty seconds like I might burst through the door unannounced.

The black blazer she’s wearing is buttoned up to her throat—a clear fuck-you to my text message suggestion—but she’s paired it with a pencil skirt that makes me remember exactly how those legs felt wrapped around my waist.

Professional attire, my ass.

I knock and watch her jump before composing herself. When she opens the door, her face is a mask of clinical detachment that makes me want to mess up her lipstick.

“Mr. Hendrix. Please come in.”

“Dr. Clark.” I brush past her, catching a whiff of that perfume. “Nice office. Very therapeutic.”

She gestures to a chair across from her desk. I take the one next to it instead, sprawling like I own the place. Her eye twitches. The same tell from Vegas when I pulled her onto the dance floor. Damn, what I would do to relive that night.

“Would you prefer the desk between us?” I ask innocently. “Or is this more of a ‘tell me about your mother’ situation?”

“This is a performance enhancement session, not psychoanalysis.” She settles behind her desk, creating the barrier between us. “Let’s start with your intake forms.”

“Didn’t get them.”

“I sent them this morning while you arrived here early, and I’m sure my assistant sent them over yesterday.”

“Must have gone to spam.” I pull out my phone, making a show of checking. “Oh wait, here they are. Right under your fascinating emails.”

Pink creeps up her neck. “Then we’ll do them verbally. Name?”

“Really? We’re starting with the basics?”

“Protocol is protocol.”

“Reed Hendrix. Though my friends call me Reed. Really close friends call me—”

“Age?”

“Twenty-eight. You?”

“I’m asking the questions.”

“Seems unbalanced. Isn’t therapy supposed to be about connection?”

She clicks her pen with unnecessary force. “Current concerns bringing you to therapy?”

“Mandatory attendance.”

“Mr. Hendrix—”

“Fine.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Current concerns. Let’s see. I’ve got anger management issues, apparently. Trust issues with teammates who abandoned me during suspension. Authority issues with coaches who throw players under the bus. And recently? Focus issues.”

“Focus issues?”

“Yeah. Can’t seem to concentrate when certain people are around. Keep getting distracted by... memories.”

Her hand stills on the paper. “And when did these focus issues begin?”

“About three days ago. Right around when the new staff arrived.”

“I see.” She makes a note, probably writing ‘patient is an insufferable asshole.’ “And how are these issues affecting your performance?”

“Haven’t played yet since reinstatement. Ask me after tomorrow’s game.”

“Let’s discuss your anger management strategies.”

“Let’s discuss why you’re hiding behind that desk like I might jump you.”

“Mr. Hendrix—”

“It’s a valid therapeutic question. You seem tense. Controlled. Classic signs of someone afraid of losing control.”

She sets down her pen carefully. “We’re here to discuss your issues, not mine.”

“But your issues are affecting my treatment. How can I open up to someone who’s wound tighter than a cheap watch?”

“I’m not—”

“When’s the last time you did something impulsive? Something that wasn’t planned, scheduled, and filed in triplicate?”

Her jaw tightens. “My personal life isn’t relevant.”

“Vegas seemed pretty impulsive.”

The words land like a grenade. She goes completely still, then stands abruptly.

“If you can’t take this seriously, I’ll have to report noncompliance to management.”

“Sit down, Chelsea.”

“It’s Dr. Clark.”

“Sit down, Dr. Clark. Please.”

Something in my tone makes her pause. She sits slowly, warily, like I’m a predator she’s not sure will attack.

“You want to talk about anger management?” I lean back, getting comfortable. “Let’s talk. Two months of court-mandated therapy taught me all about triggers. Mine’s people threatening my family. What’s yours?”

“I don’t—”

“Losing control? Being vulnerable? Someone getting too close?”

Her hands clench in her lap. “This isn’t about me.”

“Everything’s about you right now. You’re asking me to be vulnerable with someone who’s terrified of her own feelings. How’s that supposed to work?”

“I’m not terrified—”

“You ran from Vegas like the room was on fire.”

“That was two years ago.”

“But you still remember.”

“Stop.”

“You remember everything. The bar, the dancing, the way you—”

“I said stop.”

“The way you opened up to me. Not just your heart but your legs.”

She’s on her feet again, arms wrapped around herself. “This session is over.”

“We have thirty more minutes.”

“Not anymore. You’re being deliberately provocative and—”

“Honest. I’m being honest.” I stand too, maintaining distance but not backing down.

“You want to talk about my issues? Fine. I can’t sleep because I see you leaving every time I close my eyes.

I get angry because everyone else feels like settling for less.

I have focus problems because you’re here, in my space, pretending we’re strangers. ”

“We are strangers.”

“Bullshit.”

“One night doesn’t mean—”

“It meant everything.” The words explode out of me. “And you know it did. That’s why you ran. That’s why you’re terrified now.”

She backs up until she hits her desk. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you bite your lip when you’re nervous. I know you laugh with your whole body. I know you have a freckle shaped like—”

“Stop.”

“I know you’re scared of feeling too much, so you schedule and control and analyze everything to death. When’s the last time you just felt something without thinking it through?”

“That’s not—”

“When’s the last time you let someone in?”

“You’re one to talk.” She finds her fire, pushing off the desk. “Mr. Anger Management. Mr. Suspended-for-Violence. When’s the last time you dealt with a feeling that wasn’t rage?”

“Right now.”

That stops her. “What?”

“Right now. Looking at you. Wanting you so bad I can’t think straight but knowing I can’t have you. That’s a feeling I don’t know how to handle with my fists.”

The air between us crackles. She’s breathing hard, face flushed, looking like Chelsea instead of Dr. Clark for the first time since Vegas.

“This can’t happen,” she whispers.

“It already happened. We’re just dealing with the aftermath.”

“I could lose my job.”

“I could lose my career.”

“Then why—”

“Because you didn’t seem to mind how noncompliant I was in Vegas.”

The words hang between us, loaded with memory and promise. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating, and for a second I think she’s going to either slap me or kiss me.

Instead, she moves to the door, opening it with shaking hands. “Get out.”

“Chelsea—”

“Get. Out.”

I move toward the door but pause beside her. Close enough to feel her warmth, see the pulse hammering in her throat.

“This isn’t over,” I say quietly. “We both know it.”

“It has to be.”

“You bite your lip when you lie.”

She shoves me into the hallway and slams the door. Through the wood, I hear something hit the ground—a book maybe, or her professional composure.

I lean against the opposite wall, heart racing like I just played three periods. That went exactly as badly as expected and somehow worse. But I also saw her crack, saw Chelsea bleeding through Dr. Clark’s armor.

I push off the wall and head for the gym. If I can’t fuck out my frustrations, might as well try to lift them out. But I know it won’t work. Nothing has worked for two years.

Behind her closed door, I hear movement. Pacing, maybe. Or cleaning up whatever she threw. I should leave her alone, let her rebuild her defenses in peace.

Instead, I text her.

Me: For what it’s worth, I’ve been in therapy for two months. Real therapy. Not whatever this is.

Me: I’m trying to be better. But you make me want to be worse.

Me: See you at tomorrow’s game, Doc.

I pocket my phone and walk away, leaving her to her scheduled life and professional boundaries. But we both know the truth now—Vegas wasn’t an ending.

It was just the beginning of whatever this disaster is about to become.