Page 4 of The Girlfriend Game
But Marek finally said enough was enough. He was done with my irritability, mood swings, late to practice habits, and my bullshit.
Marek laid down the law that day. If I wanted to stay on the team, I had to begin therapy with Dr. Kendall Rush, a recommended sports psychologist who was endorsed by the team. He said Dr. Rush was the best in the business and would help me deal effectively with my mental health.
A shrink. Really?
I didn’t want to play stupid shrinky-dink games. The ones where the snooty-nosed, entitled doctors made you wait in their fancy lobbies, increasing your blood pressure and anxiety levels, all so they can label it an anxiety condition. Then they prescribe you drugs that won’t make you better so they can get their financial kickbacks from the pharmaceutical companies.
Drugs for depression.
Pills for social anxiety.
For stress.
For sleep.
It’s a never-ending list of prescriptions. I don’t want to live every day like a zombie, numb to pleasure, with no sex drive or ambition, feeling like a failure because I can’t cope with life. A life that’s blessed and richly undeserved.
I had no leverage and no wiggle room to negotiate with Marek. Even Marvin Spurlock, the team’s owner, agreed with Marek. There was nothing I could do to get out of it.
Seeing Dr. Kendall Rush is part of the agreement I conceded to after Marek and Marvin’s intervention and the only way I can remain on the team.
The only reason I don’t say fuck it and walk away is that I love this game too much. It’s all I’ve ever known. What would be left for me? I’m thirty-three and have played professionally for ten years. That’s a lifetime. And this game isn’t kind to veterans, not when there’s an ocean full of nineteen- and twenty-year-old kids out there who play college ball for a year and then draft to the pros.
No team in their right mind would pick up a guy like me over a young, eager player. Especially knowing I could suffer a mental breakdown at any moment. What team wants this mess on their hands?
So here I am, waiting to attend my first of fifteen sessions with a psychotherapist, Dr. Rush, who will assess my mental stability and fortitude and report back to Marek whether I’m redeemable.
The team is probably just using this as a formality for liability purposes, a way for them to wipe their hands free of me and end my contract if I don’t comply. Whatever. I’ll do it and get it over with and prove to them I’m not crazy and I’m not a major headcase.
Had it not been for my buddy Carver, I would be far less eager to be here. But when I mentioned Marek’s requirement of me, Carver shared that he, too, has attended “checkups” with Dr. Rush to help him deal with some things from his past. He swears that therapy has made him a better player, husband, and father.
Picking up my phone, I check the time and grit my teeth.
What is it with these fucking arrogant, privileged doctors? Who the hell do they think they are to keep people waiting for so goddamn long?
I sigh, eying a hard-covered book sitting on the coffee table. I lean over and pick up the copy.
The Rush Methodby Dr. Kendall Rush.
I flip it over in my hands and blink a few times.
Well, fuck me. What do you know?
Dr. Rush is a woman.
A fucking hot one, too. Wavy copper-red hair that hangs past her shoulders, a pair of red-rimmed glasses to match her lips, and a smile that gives off a sexy librarian vibe. My dick perks up as I imagine her unbuttoning that crisp white blouse of hers, licking her lips, and spreading her legs…
Like a needle scratching over a vinyl record, the sound of the receptionist’s voice calling out my name has my head popping up with a guilty smile.
“Mr. Forester, Dr. Rush will see you now.”
Well, I hope Dr. Rush is ready for me.
Let the shrink games begin.
