Page 6 of The Girlfriend Game
Very cute.
Looks like I’ve got my hands full with this one. But I don’t share the same level of amusement at his response. Once again, it gives me a very clear picture of who my patient is and what I’m up against by the way he responds to this question.
In this case, it’s obvious to me that he hides his pain and anxiety under a shield of sarcasm. That’s okay. I can work with that.
I flick my eyes to his, arching a brow inquisitively. “Is that right? So, over all the years you’ve played professionally, earning MVP titles and All-Star nominations, and maybe even the Championship, what brings you the most joy from the game is what women have to offer? There are no other intrinsic, motivating factors aside from sex?”
I jot a few lines in my notepad before lifting my gaze back to his. His expression has turned from humorous to dark and edgy, a petulant child who has been called out and scolded.
Zeke glares at me tight lipped, daring me to say more. Which I’m prepared to do.
I lay the pencil down on the notepad. “I can’t imagine it’s an easy sport to play without having an internal drive to win. All that sacrifice to be the best of the best.” I shrug a shoulder to indicate my curiosity. “I guess I can see the appeal. The thrill you get from all that notoriety and fame, and the respect from fans, the attention from women, can make you feel powerful and virile.”
Zeke seems to stew over this, looking uncomfortable now in the hot seat. He shrugs.
I lean forward again and prop my chin in hand, tapping my finger against my lips. “Perhaps it’s true then about the price of fame. It can eat you up and swallow you whole if you let it. Fame and glory are fickle and will fade. One wrong move or play and it’s gone.” I snap my fingers. “And that’s a lot of pressure to handle. It’s a lot to deal with.”
Zeke screws up his forehead andtsks. “Heavy philosophy you’re pushing, Kendall. But I don’t share your views.”
“Oh? Then do you care to share your opinion on why you’re here? If the fame and fans were sustaining you and giving you what you needed, then how did you end up on the floor during a game, suffering from a panic attack?”
He chuffs and unfolds his legs. “Alleged panic attack.”
I raise an eyebrow censoriously. The notes in his file were classic symptoms of a panic attack, but I’ll let it go for now.
“I’ll ask again. If all the external rewards you’ve amassed give you what you need, then why are you here? Seems to me you have a choice and don’t need me or my help.”
I’ve backed him into a corner, and I’ve done it on purpose. It’s the only way to get someone like Zeke to admit they need help.
Planting both feet on the floor and placing his hands on the armrest of the chair, Zeke unfolds his legs and pushes himself to a standing position. I crane my neck and gaze skyward at his very tall and looming frame. I’m sure he makes a formidable opponent out on the court.
But in here, with me, he’s notmyopponent, whether he believes that or not. My job is to help him unlock the mystery to get to the root of his issues, and then give him the tools to get back on track to lead a healthy life going forward.
“I agree with you there, Kendall. I guess that means I’ll be on my way then.”
He turns and in two long strides is at my office door. As he places his hand around the handle, I stop him with what I know he needs to hear.
“Zeke, seeking help through therapy doesn’t make you weak. In fact, it’s obvious that you are a strong and capable man. Even the greatest of athletes and the best of the best are only human. You are not a machine of will and strength and your mental health is not something you can just endure. By ignoring the warning signs, you’re doing yourself a great disservice and possibly even self-harm in the long term.”
With his back to me, his shoulders appear to be tight boulders, holding up the weight of the world as his body shakes with resistance. I know I can help remove some of that burden, but it’s up to him to accept my assistance.
“Zeke, your team depends on you to do this. If not for yourself, do it for your team. The ball is in your court.”
He hesitates for a moment and then drops his forehead against the door in silent contemplation. Without turning around, he simply says, “Goodbye, Kendall.”
And then he walks out.
And a small tear rips open inside my chest. It’s not a wound of defeat, but a sliver of hope that Zeke Forester will be back again.
On his own time and his own terms.
