Chapter 3
Roxanne
“Don’t you get tired of coming to this dreadful place all the time just to see me?” Lenny grumbles, disheartened, as he plays his hand.
“Not at all. I’ve grown very fond of our little card games,” I reply warmly while placing a three of clubs onto the discarded pile that lies on top of his overbed table. I fetch a new card, smiling when it turns out to be a queen of hearts.
“That’s because you always beat me at this damn game.” He chuckles in amusement. “Aren’t you supposed to let me win a game or two? It does very little for my ego getting my ass handed to me by my own shrink.”
“Therapist,” I correct with a broad smile. “And letting you win won’t improve your self-esteem if you feel it wasn’t hard fought. This way, when you do win, you know that you’ve bested me. Fair and square.”
“Yeah, I guess it is better this way. I have enough people in my life feeling sorry for me as it is. At least I can always count on you to give it to me straight and treat me like I still have some dignity left,” he laments with his frown lines returning to his face.
“Is that how you feel? That people pity you?” I ask, lowering my gaze and fixing it on my hand.
He nods despondently while staring at his own cards.
“Not that I blame them. I mean, what else are people supposed to feel?”
“Empathy for one,” I suggest.
“Right. Empathy.” Lenny scoffs. “No one in their right mind wants to think about putting themselves in my shoes. Not even for empathy’s sake.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because then they’d be just as unlucky as I am. No one wants my bad luck. Not even in a made-up scenario.”
“Is that how you see yourself? As unlucky?” I probe further, gently aiding him to open up more.
“What else could you call me? I blew up my knee before the season even started. I lost my winning ticket with the Guardians before I had a chance to show everyone my worth. Who the fuck does that if not a loser?” he exclaims, exalted, still showing signs of inner rage.
“I’d say a hockey player,” I chime in evenly before retrieving another card from the pile.
“An unlucky hockey player, you mean,” he mumbles, his moment of fury morphing again into self-pity.
It’s been like this since I’ve known him, unfortunately.
One second, Lenny is angry at the world, throwing punches left and right, and then the next, his critical self-loathing and melancholy kicks in. His healing journey has proven to be a difficult one, both physically and mentally. However, my main concern and focus is on the latter.
In the early stages of our counseling sessions, Lenny refused to give me any insight into his inner struggles and turmoil, adamant that he didn’t need therapy. Hard as he tried to push me away and deny my help, I was never dismayed. I’ve become quite accustomed to these types of rebutting challenges when dealing with professional athletes, therefore, I already expected his reluctance going into it.
Most athletes—no matter the sport—have been groomed from a very early age to never show any weakness. Talking about their insecurities, fears, or feelings doesn’t come naturally, so patience is essential in these cases.
It took me months to build up a solid rapport with Lenny, one that enabled him to lower his guard enough to let me in. After much trial and error, I found that the best strategy to get him to open up was to pull the focus off the therapy session in its entirety and instead create an environment that nurtured his competitive side—one that made him feel empowered and safe.
Hence, the card game.
“Do you believe that luck plays such a large role in one’s life?” I ask patiently, giving him a minute to consider the question carefully. “And if so, then wouldn’t it make more sense to assume that luck was always on your side whenever you entered a rink before your accident?” I add while making sure to keep my tone soothingly calm and even. “Every sport has its risks, do they not? None more so than ice hockey, I would imagine. So, by that logic, wouldn’t you say that you’ve actually been extremely lucky? So lucky, in fact, that throughout all the years you’ve ever played such a high-risk sport, you can boast at only having been injured once?”
“I guess,” he mutters noncommittally before retrieving a card.
“Isn’t it also fortuitous that despite your injury being severe, your doctors still remain optimistic about your recovery?”
He nods, still looking despondent.
“Well, then. It seems to me that if luck really is a key factor in one’s life, then you have a healthy amount of it.”
His forehead crinkles as if uncomfortable with the glass-half-full picture I’ve painted of his circumstances.
“It could have been worse,” I add.
“How do you figure?”
“Well, your accident occurred during fall practice. Can you imagine if it had happened during an actual game? Your injury might have been more profound.”
He shrugs noncommittally again, placing a card on the table and picking up a new one.
“Not to mention that the team might have lost the game after such a blow.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right on that account. The Guardians have seen enough bad luck without mine getting added to the mix.” His frown deepens. “I just wish I was better so I could be there for everyone. They need good, talented centers now more than ever.”
“They’ll make do. Your only concern should be focused on getting better. If you really want to help the team, you have to look after yourself first and foremost.”
“Is this where you give me the metaphor of the airplane’s oxygen masks? About how I should put my own mask on first before attending to anyone else?” He lets out a meek chuckle.
“It’s a good metaphor for a reason.” I grin. “You won’t be able to truly help anyone else if you don’t help yourself first.”
“Yeah, you’ve given me this spiel before.” He smiles in earnest this time. “I get it, Roxanne.”
“Do you?” I arch a questioning brow.
He nods, his shy smile stretching wider.
“Good. I’m glad,” I reply proudly. “Then the only thing left for me to say is… gin,” I exclaim before spreading all my cards on the table.
“Damn it. I didn’t even see it coming.” He cackles. “You act all nice and sweet, but under that kind facade lies a ruthless killer, huh, Doc?”
“Just another metaphor for life. Never judge a book by its cover.” I wink. “Do you want to play another hand?”
He looks over at the clock hanging on the wall of his hospital bedroom and nods.
“Yeah, I could do with another game.”
But just as he says it, our attention is pulled to a few giggling nurses as they pass through his room’s open door. I turn around and see them whispering amongst themselves, staring at something or someone at the end of the long hallway.
“What’s that about?” I ask, curious.
“Must be Caleb Donovan wandering the halls again. All the nurses go gaga for Donovan,” Lenny explains with a touch of disgust.
“Oh.” I frown, recalling the various news articles of the terrible car accident last February in which the Donovan brothers were involved. “I heard about what happened to his brother. Just heartbreaking.”
“Yeah. If you want to talk about blows, that was a major one. Not sure how the team will recover after losing Jack.”
“I’m sure the club will muster through,” I retort, optimistically.
“I don’t see them having much of a choice. But if you ask me, the wrong Donovan got the worst of it. No one will ever be able to fill Jack’s shoes.”
“Were you two close?” I ask since, aside from his injury, Lenny hasn’t shown this much disdain and outrage for anything else.
“Everyone was close to Jack. He just had this vibe to him, you know? A true bona fide leader. You wanted to make him proud. You trusted him on and off the ice. His kid brother, Caleb… not so much.”
“Oh?”
“Let’s just say that the two brothers are polar opposite of each other. Jack was a pillar in our community, a force of reliability and encouragement within the team. Whereas Caleb is nothing but a loudmouth class clown. If you look up the word jackass, then I’m sure you’ll see his picture attached to it. He was always getting himself in trouble, knowing damn well his big brother would sort out his mess.”
“You’re angry at him,” I conclude, after such a defaming description of his teammate.
“You bet I am,” he sneers. “Everyone is talking about how it was Jack driving that night and how unfortunate it was that the truck driver didn’t see the car in time to brake, but no one is talking about how Caleb is at fault for all of it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, invested in his version of events.
“I mean that the only reason Jack was there, to begin with, was to drive his drunken, sorry ass of a brother home after he spent the whole night partying. Entitled little shit,” Lenny curses the last part under his breath. “Couldn’t he have called an Uber or taken a cab home or something? Of course, he could. But he didn’t. Instead, he called his big brother because Jack was always cleaning up after him. Like I said. It was the wrong brother whose future was stolen from him that night. It should have been Caleb, not Jack,” he finishes with conviction.
“That’s a lot of anger for just one person. Are you sure that you’re not holding onto that animosity because dealing with what happened to Jack is too disheartening for you to accept?” I ask, needing to get to the root of this unexpected rage.
“I told you how I got here, right? How I attempted a play on the ice but lost my balance, falling awkwardly and busting my kneecap in the process?”
“You did.” I nod, knowing that’s how he prefers to remember the incident.
“Well, the only reason why I fell was because some fool, who couldn’t stop fucking around in practice, distracted me.” Lenny jeers. “I’m here in a hospital bed, going on my third knee surgery, and he didn’t even get a slap on the wrist for it. I’ll give you two guesses who that jackass was, though I’m sure you’ll only need one.”
“Caleb Donovan,” I answer, the puzzle pieces all falling into place.
“Bingo,” he confirms, nostrils flaring.
“I see.”
“You know what, Roxanne? I’m feeling kind of tired right now. Talking about that asshole really drained me. Do you mind if we take a raincheck on our game for next time?”
“Of course,” I relent, seeing that all his good disposition flew out the window the minute we started talking about Caleb Donovan.
I pack up the cards and place them back inside the deck while Lenny makes himself comfortable in his hospital bed. I pick up my handbag and turn to him to say goodbye.
“I’ll return later this week for a rematch. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky and win this time,” I tease lightly, unsettled that we’re ending our session on such a somber note.
“Like I said, Roxanne, no one who spends their days in this place is lucky. No one. Least of all me.”
My light smile slips off my face at his reply.
Whatever headway I had managed to make today with Lenny, it went down the drain with the mention of his fallen team captain and his younger brother.
I should have known better not to broach the topic. I’ve been working for the Boston Guardians for far too long to have forgotten what a tight unit they are.
They’re more than teammates—they’re family.
When one hurts, they all do.
Having said that, I can understand Lenny’s need to place the blame for his circumstance, as well as his teammate’s, onto a third party, even if said party is another teammate. Having a scapegoat where you can put all your grievances, resentment, and heartache is highly appealing to someone going through it . Placing blame on an actual person or even an abstract concept, such as luck, is easier than facing the dire truth that life, even with all its glorious potential and wonder, can be incredibly cruel and unfair.
People get injured while on the job even after taking every precaution to ensure they don’t.
People get hurt and killed in car accidents every day, no matter how prolific their driving.
People get sick and die, regardless of their young age.
Luck doesn’t factor into it.
Karma has no say on the matter.
Life just happens… to the best and worst of us.
We all have moments like these where we are tested. Where we are given more than what we feel we can possibly endure.
Moments… where we fall from grace.
I should know.
I still bear its scars.
But what no one told me at the time of my own misfortune was that it was okay to fall. That there’s no shame in letting ourselves slip away and get momentarily lost and engulfed in our misery. That sometimes darkness holds more solace and comfort than light could ever bring.
I learned the hard way that giving myself permission to wallow in my grief was a step in the right direction to my own personal healing.
I had to be in it to finally want to overcome it.
Grueling as it was, it was this eye-opening experience that helped me become a better therapist. Not only did it give me more empathy and allow me to connect with my patients on a deeper level, but it also taught me that life’s sneaky treacheries are no match compared to a soul’s resilience.
It’s a basic animal instinct to want to survive.
It’s human nature to want to overcome adversity in whatever form it appears.
This visceral need is ingrained in our very DNA.
And right now, it’s my job to remind Lenny that he has this inner strength inside him, even if he can’t see yet. However, it will prove difficult for him to see anything if he keeps blaming others for his misfortunes, refusing to take any accountability for his own actions.
Unbeknownst to him, Coach Liam Byrne gave me a detailed description of how Lenny suffered his injury. In his need to show his team what he could bring to the table, he attempted a risky play, one that he wasn’t skilled enough to accomplish. He got hurt because of his own reckless actions and no one else’s.
However, based on today’s conversation, it seems that it will be some time before he’s able to acknowledge his own role in all of it. If I’m going to have any shot at helping Lenny, I need to find a way to ease him into coming to terms with his own involvement regarding the challenges he’s facing now.
Maybe I could ask Coach Byrne to lend me the practice tape of that day.
Maybe if he sees it with his own eyes, it will force him to see his own accountability.
As I walk down the hospital corridor, these are the thoughts rummaging in my brain after leaving Lenny’s room. I’m so distracted trying to conceive a plan to get him back on track that I don’t see the brick walking towards me until it literally knocks into me and drops me to my knees.
Only it isn’t a wall.
It’s none other than my patient’s professed arch-nemesis—Caleb Donovan.