Page 157 of Scoring the Player
“Demons”
I envy the lonely, all that empty space.
“Arnaz?” My therapist frowns. “Can you tell me if you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm?”
Eight points, one assist, and no rebounds.
Why didn’t I rebound?
I release a long yawn.
Thirty-two minutes past six, only eighteen minutes left.
Eight points. Pitiful.
I wince from the burn in my throat. “I keep tasting vodka.”
“Thanks for letting me know. Let’s address that in a moment. Can you tell me if you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm?”
“Just vodka.”
“Thank you.” She scrawls something down. “Okay, you said you taste it all the time?”
“Yeah.”
“If I recall correctly”—she scans the screen of her tablet—“that was your father’s drink of choice.”
Four fouls. Three were my bad, but the fourth was definitely a bad call.
“Coach benched me for the second half yesterday.”
She observes me in silence before replying, “He did? Can we hold that thought for one second?”
I nod.
“The vodka. Do you think it’s related to your college coach joining your current team’s coaching staff?”
I shrug, crossing my arms.
“That’s okay. If there is a connection, it may not be obvious. We can go slowly. Coach benched you for the second half of the game. How did that make you feel?”
Every time I swallow, it burns.
“I keep chewing these tea tree toothpicks.” I pull the one I’m gnawing on out of my mouth and hold it up to her. “Sthyyll vaahd-kuh,” I say on a yawn.
“Hmm.” She angles her head. “When did this start?”
He said he felt it too back in college. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
“It makes me feel sick. I hate the taste.”
“Arnaz, may I share an observation with you?”
Why does every hotel room have generic art? Ocean views, mountains, clouds…
“May I?” she asks.
Vodka burns worse than salt water.
