6. Chapter Six
Vaughn
A feeling of relaxation settles on my chest as Nicholas navigates skillfully through the hills, each minute bringing us closer to my Hudson Valley mansion.
We have driven in total silence from the airport—not that we usually engage in chitchat. Still, even if we did, I wouldn’t have entertained him, as I am utterly exhausted mentally and physically after the encounter with the fans at the airport.
Damn Rachel!
This is all her fault. This is an incident she should have anticipated and prevented, but her dumbass couldn’t even do that. I bet she was the one who sold my location because who else on earth knew I was landing at the airport?
The car drives over a bump and comes to a jolty stop.
“Welcome home, boss,” Nicholas says, breaking me out of my thoughts, his shadowy face half turned in my direction.
Finally.
Nicholas turns off the ignition, hastily hops out of the car, steps around it, and opens the door for me. I descend and place my hands on my waist as I gaze at my mansion with pride.
My home. My abode. My haven.
I watch as the now-setting sun casts its warm rays on the zinc roofs and glass windows, a smile crossing my face. It’s such a mundane and natural thing, but after the hell I have been through during my time away in the UK, just a photo of my house would trigger positive emotions.
Nicholas appears from behind me with two bags in hand.
He walks ahead of me, and I follow closely behind. I specifically told Nicholas to park the car just outside the mansion on our way home. I want to walk through those gates myself. Despite feeling like all my joints will dislocate if I exert myself too much, I know I have to work out as soon as I get in. Walking through the gates to the entrance door is my way of warming up for what is to come.
I murmur replies to the greetings of the security men at the gate and walk straight to the entrance, where Elena, my maid, is waiting to greet me with a smile.
“Welcome home, Mr. Vaughn. Would you like to—”
“Not now, Elena,” I wave her off.
The soft thud of my cane on the tiled floor annoys me for some reason, and I send it flying across the living room, barely missing the LCD TV by an inch.
I turn to Elena, and her expression strikes a balance between being puzzled and being terrified.
“What is there to look at, Elena? Set me an ice bath!” I bark.
She scurries past me and straight to the bathroom. I limp to my gym and stare at the treadmill longingly, cursing my leg injury. I need some dumbbell lifting, some bench presses, and some leg presses, and then I’ll be done for the day.
Some people may think it’s crazy that I have to do all this despite an injury, but what most don’t understand is that’s what makes Vaughn Graham the greatest soccer player in the United States. Being the best doesn’t fully cut it for me; I want to be the best for many years to come and carve my name in gold in the Soccer Hall of Fame.
I feel a stinging pain in my thigh as I push at the footplate despite setting it to medium intensity. My whole body is already drenched in hot, sticky sweat after going through my dumbbell and bench press workout. I blink away a drop of salty sweat from my eye, and in that instant, I sit up straight, frustrated, my chest heaving.
Now, I feel like I have earned myself an ice bath.
Feeling content, I head to my bedroom to wrap a towel around my waist before heading to the bathroom. Medium-sized chunks of ice bubble afloat in the tub. I can almost feel their coldness on my skin before I sink in.
I settle into the tub, partially submerging myself in the water. With closed eyes, I exhale deeply, savoring the chill of the water against my skin. I let my thoughts drift freely, and they take me through all the activities of the day and my stay in the UK. It’s been a hellish three days, and the feel of the cold water against my skin is all I need to deal with the aftermath.
Perfect .
The feeling is perfect, but not for long. My reality isn’t; my life isn’t.
Isn’t it strange and unbecoming that, despite having a successful career that has spanned over seven years and is still very active, I still struggle to deal with all that comes with my career? The paparazzi, the cameras, the lack of privacy, the lack of peace and quiet, and the expectations weighing heavily on me are all things I should have gotten used to by now. But no—it seems like my aversion to them keeps getting worse and worse.
I realize that my thoughts are taking me in a completely different direction than I intended. I just want to enjoy a nice ice bath and possibly take a nap.
My eyes snap open, and all of a sudden, the ice doesn’t feel so good against my skin anymore. Frustrated, I step out of the tub, grab a clean towel from the rack, and wrap it around my waist. I make my way to the bedroom and stand in front of my bed, contemplating calling Rachel to book an appointment with my therapist.
Cold water drips from my body, forming a small puddle at my feet, but I couldn’t care less.
I sink into the lush comfort of my bed and exhale in resignation. I pick up my phone and dial Rachel’s number.
In the blink of an eye, it connects, and I literally exhale in relief. Rachel and I parted ways shortly after my interaction with the fans at the airport. Now, I’m worried she might have drifted off to a nap, judging from how sunken her eyes had appeared just before we parted ways.
“Hello, Vaughn?”
“Hey, listen. I want you to schedule a meeting with Craig ASAP.”
A moment of silence ensues, followed by a throaty response from the other end of the phone, “You mean Craig, your therapist? And you mean now?”
“Well, if there’s any other Craig you know I might call you to schedule a meeting with, I would have been more specific. Be fast about it, Rachel.”
I hang up before she can reply, and I collapse my head on the bed.
A knock sounds from my bedroom door.
“Who’s that?”
“It’s me, Elena. I made some dinner just in case you would want an early meal.”
“Okay.”
“Should I bring it up to your bedroom or leave it in the dining room?”
“The dining room. Now leave me alone.”
The footsteps grow fainter as she disappears back to where she came from.
I stand up straight from my bed, head to the wardrobe, and begin shuffling through a stockpile of clothes until my eyes settle on a pair of shorts and a white T-shirt. I quickly slip them on and head down to the living room. I am already halfway down the stairs when my front door opens.
Dr Craig stands at the door for a moment, his face dissolving into a friendly smile as soon as he sets his baby-blue eyes on me.
“Great timing, Doc. I am about to have dinner. Might as well join me.”
“That would be nice,” he says, his smile growing even wider.
The clock strikes 7:00 p.m. with a chime as I head to the dining room. Craig, in a full suit and carrying a briefcase, hops behind me. We settle ourselves into the chairs, and we dig into our rib-eye steaks and mashed potatoes without delay. Seeing how Dr. Craig devours his food makes me think back to how hard I tried to convince him to come over to my house for sessions instead of me going to his office. He declined vehemently, saying how it is unprofessional and isn’t healthy for boundaries. Now, here he is, gluttonously gulping down my expensive wine because he no longer feels like a stranger around here.
“You’re lucky you caught me just when I was about to leave for home,” he says, gulping down more wine.
“Oh, yeah?”
“That’s right. I was planning to have an early night today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I had to be the reason you couldn’t, then.”
He almost chokes on his food as he adjusts his tie, the smile slipping from his face. “No, I . . . I didn’t mean it that way. You know I am ready to come here at any time.”
I nod.
“Tasty meal, by the way, Mr. Vaughn.”
“All thanks to my chef.”
We finish our meal, step into the living room, and settle on the sofa. I am never a fan of therapy. I hate it. I used to think that it wasn’t for me until a teammate, Abel, recommended Dr. Craig to me. I reluctantly accepted and had a session with Dr. Craig, and here we are.
But the number of sessions I have had does nothing to smooth my nervous edges each time we meet for a session. It always feels like I am about to take a deep dive into a sea of frightening memories—memories I have managed to tame into oblivion.
I pick up the small porcelain figurine of myself with a ball that is laid on the table and begin toying with it nervously.
“So, Mr. Vaughn, how is your injury? Is it getting better?”
“Well, there’s been some progress, Doc. But it still hurts like hell.”
“I see. That is one of the risks you soccer players have to be prepared for, huh?”
“No lies detected.”
A brief silence ensues, and from the look on Craig’s face as he examines mine, I can tell that something is on his mind. Perhaps he sees that something is on mine, too?
He shifts in his chair, assuming a more upright position. “Well, speaking of soccer playing, how have things been lately regarding your career?”
I have called him specifically to talk about this, but the question still manages to catch me off guard.
I pause briefly before answering. “Yeah, well, about that . . . as you know, I haven’t been active on the field due to my injury. I have been more involved in deals and sponsorships, and I spend more time at my charity organization.”
“I see. And how would you say that has impacted you?”
I haven’t given much thought to this. I have always had a busy schedule, and despite the injury, I still do. So, the injury doesn’t make much of a difference in my busy life. But how does it make me feel?
“Well, Doc, I think I feel less pressured since the injury. I get to have a more flexible schedule when it comes to training, and not having the coach breathing down my neck is sort of a relief. I get to spend more time at the charity organization, which I guess is a good thing since it’s something impactful.” I throw up my hands. “Well, I guess it feels good to take a break.”
“Hmm,” Craig lets out a thoughtful murmur. It’s crazy that even a murmur could be thoughtful. “So, would you say that the injury was a blessing in disguise?”
No. This ain’t no blessing in disguise! There’s no way being a limping man, even if it’s for a short time, can be a blessing in disguise! I can’t even train intensely.
A ripple of annoyance flashes through me as I recall how the asshole from the opponent team tackled me roughly. I was with the ball, and I was already within the eighteenth yard from the opponent’s goal post and could already see the ball doing cartwheels in the goal net when, all of a sudden, I felt heavy boots crash on my right thigh as I positioned myself to deliver a shot. I immediately collapsed on the floor in agonizing pain. We scored a penalty with the foul, and the player was given a red card, but I was still very injured.
“Maybe.” I shrug at the doctor. “I prefer to see it more as a break to do other things than a blessing in disguise. I can’t even engage in intense training, and my stamina seems to have declined as well.”
“I’m sure you will get it back with time. After all, you’re the greatest player in the country.”
“That I am.”
We go on to talk about my aversion to crowds despite being a celebrity, and I tell him how it is part of the reason I feel stressed out after my trip.
“Well, there’s nothing much to do about that, is there, Doc? I have an assistant who should oversee these things, but it seems someone sells information to publicity outlets about my whereabouts. It’s annoying.”
“I think we should address the root cause of your aversion. Is it something you think you can control?”
I assume my face takes on a contorted look of confusion. “There’s no root cause for why I don’t fancy crowds that much. I just like to be left alone in peace. But given the kind of life I lead, I know that’s not possible. Even when I try to keep it to the bare minimum, it still doesn’t work.”
The doctor’s blue eyes were fixed on my face, silently urging me to continue.
I inhale deeply. “I love my fans, but I am still human.”
His briefcase clicks open, and he brings out a notepad from inside, reaches into his breast pocket, and pulls out a pen. Then, he begins scribbling something.
“I understand” is what he simply says.
He looks up at me again, and then he drops a question I don’t think I want to reply to.
“What about your family? When was the last time you spoke with them?”
For some reason, the image of Rachel’s judgmental stare when I talked to my mother on the phone in the jet flashes through my mind.
“I talked with my mother earlier today.”
Or did I?
I really didn’t talk to her. She wanted to talk, so I told her I was busy.
“You said you told her you were busy?”
I jerk my head up toward Craig. “Did I say that out loud?”
“You did.”
I shake my head in embarrassment. At the same time, there is a brief silence.
“Vaughn,” Craig says in a light tone, “I hope you realize that it is important that you always tell the truth during our sessions. I have told you several times and will keep telling you that this is a safe space, free from judgment. I understand why you may not want to talk about certain things, and if such instances arise, you can tell me you don’t want to talk about them. Are we clear?”
I nod in understanding.
“Good. Now, is there anything you would want us to talk about?”
I shake my head negatively.
“Okay then. I better get going. Thank you for the dinner.” He flashes me with his perfect smile and disappears through the front door.
I go back to my room and lie in bed. My eyes are starting to get heavy with sleep, and warmth spreads over my chest. As I said earlier, I am not really a fan of therapy, but with Doctor Craig, even when I don’t gain insight into my issues from our sessions, talking to him makes me feel better.
The swirling fan gets blurry, and my eyes close slowly. I can already feel my consciousness drifting away when, suddenly, my phone shrieks, jolting me back into full wake mode.
Rachel.
What the hell does she want?
I swipe right, and a shaky, apprehensive voice fills my ears.
“Mr. Vaughn, we have a serious problem.”
The tone of her voice sends a chill down my spine.
“Serious problem?” I sit upright, my nerves on edge, my senses tense. “What happened?”
I can literally hear her gulp before she continues, “Remember Novaspire Technologies? The mobile tech company you did a shoot for in the UK? Well, we mistakenly signed a contract with their rival company, Mobilix Solutions, and they are calling for you to fulfill the terms of the contract, or else they are going to sue.”
“What?” I spring up from my bed, my neck hair standing on edge.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Vaughn.”