Chapter 6
Caleb
I was warned by Trent’s assistant to be at the illustrious Dr. Roxanne Seymour’s office this afternoon at three o’clock on the dot.
So, of course, I arrived at four.
Just my little ‘fuck you’ to the GM for making me go through with this.
Argh.
Therapy.
Fucking therapy.
Like my life isn’t fucked up enough that I now have to discuss my feelings with some stranger.
As if that shit will help.
It fucking won’t.
I know it, and so does everyone else.
Not that it matters.
I’m not here for me.
I’m here for them— my friends—my so-called family.
Nate, Piper, and even fucking Trent all seem to have this incessant need to save me. Like they’re afraid of what I might do now that Jack is no longer around to restrain me.
I saw how they looked at me at that godawful intervention.
The fear in their eyes.
I saw how Nate, even pissed at me, would do everything in his power to pull me off the ledge before I self-destruct entirely.
Doesn’t he know that he’d be a better friend to me if he just fucking pushed me off it instead?
Argh.
Fuck it.
I’ll play along.
If they want me to see a shrink to ease their conscience, then fine, I’ll see a fucking shrink. I’ll see as many shrinks as they want me to. And trust me, there will be plenty since I fully intend to be such a fucking nightmare that no one in their right mind would want to keep me as their patient.
Hey, I said I’d play along.
I never said anything about playing nice.
And as luck would have it, I found the perfect opportunity to piss off this Dr. Seymour sitting pretty behind the reception counter.
“Maybe after my session, you and I could go out for coffee?” I cajole as the beach blonde receptionist bats her eyelashes at me after I’ve given her one of my best, sultry smiles.
“Coffee?” she sings, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger while squeezing her tits together at the same time to draw my attention to them.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I say coffee? My bad, babe. What I meant to say was, how about we find a broom closet somewhere in this building and see what this pretty mouth can do,” I reply, making her squirm in her seat.
I bet Dr. Seymour will flip her lid when she finds out I screwed her receptionist’s brains out during working hours.
Mind you, it’s going to take a herculean effort to fuck this woman since my sex drive has taken a deep nosedive since the accident. So much so that I’m not even surprised when the blonde provocatively licks her lips like she can’t wait to have my dick in her mouth, and it does absolutely nothing to lift my cock’s spirits.
Limp as a wet noodle over here.
Hopefully, fucking with my new shrink will ultimately get my juices flowing.
At least, that’s what I’m banking on.
“So what do you say?” I ask her while using the pad of my thumb to wipe the pink bubblegum lipstick off her lower lip and up the corner of her mouth.
“I think I can sneak off for a bit,” she says breathlessly
“Good.” I smile mischievously while discreetly wiping that horrible lipstick off my finger.
“But we’ll have to be discreet. Dr. Seymour doesn’t like it when I…. I mean, she doesn’t approve of fraternizing with her patients. Especially patients referred by the Boston Guardians,” she whispers.
In other words, she’s fucked her boss’ clients before.
The minute I saw her, I knew that she would jump at the chance to ride my dick.
I’ve met plenty of women like her—the kind that would fuck someone famous just so they could brag about it to their friends.
Not that I care.
Guys brag about fucking pretty bunnies left and right in the locker room. Why shouldn’t she have the right to do the same? As long as it’s consensual, it’s all good in my book.
Live and let live, I always say.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” I wink.
Oh, I’ll definitely tell.
I’ll make sure that her boss knows good and well what we’re about to get up to.
Otherwise, what would be the point?
“Huh, hem,” I hear someone clear their throat behind me, the sound making the receptionist’s cheeks suddenly turn the same bright shade of pink as her lipstick.
“Dr. Seymour, I presume,” I smirk before turning around to meet the doctor who has been assigned to fix me.
Good luck with that.
But once I’ve fully turned around to finally put a name to a face, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach.
It’s her.
The woman I knocked into at the hospital the other day.
Fuck me.
Just like it did during our first unexpected encounter in that hospital hallway, I find myself momentarily at a loss for words. Which is saying something since I’m known for always talking out of my ass.
It’s those eyes.
Even behind black-framed glasses, those molten-whiskey eyes draw me in, like pools of liquid honey shimmering in the light. Back at the hospital, they held the warmest shade of gold, sparkling with such warmth and understanding that I was sure she had the power to read my every thought as easily as one would a book.
Today, however, her mesmerizing orbs seem to burn for a whole other reason.
Her golden flecks glimmer, angry at me, not hiding her resentment. It’s so intense that a weaker man would start questioning every action or decision he’s ever made.
I, however, seem to be having a totally different reaction altogether.
My cock hasn’t sprung to attention like this in months.
And all it took was the fiery glare of disdain shining through her eyes.
The blonde bunny would do in a pinch, but her boss?
This is the type of woman wars are fought and won over.
“Mr. Donovan, you’re late,” she states sternly, successfully snapping me out of my fucked-up reverie.
“Am I? I must have lost track of time.” I wink again at the receptionist, doing my best to gain my bearings and get my head back in the game.
“In the future, you need to be here on time or don’t bother showing up at all,” she rebukes with that same stern tone in her voice.
Hmm.
This is so not the woman I met the other day.
That woman had been kind.
This one has a stick up her ass.
Does she not remember me?
“Woah, there, sweetheart. No need for such hostility,” I try to joke. “I thought therapy was all about safe spaces and all that jazz.”
“It’s only as safe as its members,” she deadpans.
Okay.
Now she’s getting on my nerves .
“Listen, sweetheart, I want to be here as much as you want me to. Trust me.”
“Oh, I’ve been given the message regarding your reluctance, all right. And if that is really how you feel, please be my guest and leave.” She points to the door.
Oh, this one has a little bite to her.
I like that.
“And here I thought therapists were supposed to be the epitome of patience and understanding.”
“I’m a doctor, Mr. Donovan. Not a saint. So tell me, are you staying or leaving? I have other patients to attend to who truly want my help, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t waste my time.”
I don’t want her fucking help, but I also don’t want her to think she can get rid of me so easily.
But wasn’t that what I wanted anyway?
For her to give up?
I mean, wasn’t that why I was making the moves on the receptionist?
To piss her off in a way that she would be forced to send me packing?
I shake the thought away and flash my pearly-white smile at her instead.
“Lead the way, Doc. I’m all yours.”
She spins on her heel and walks into her office, leaving me to trail behind her like some puppy.
If I weren’t so annoyed, I’d allow myself to admire her hourglass figure. However, as I keep reminding myself of how I’m here against my will, I purge out all thoughts of how fucking gorgeous she is.
So she’s hot. So fucking what?
I’ve had my fair share of beautiful women.
Not like her, you haven’t.
She’s nothing special.
Yep, keep telling yourself that.
I swear, of all of the times to get a hard-on, this is the most inconvenient of them all.
And don’t even get me started on who.
I swear, my cock is out to get me.
First, it goes radio silent for ages and now decides it wants a piece of the one woman who I should despise on principle alone.
“Have a seat, Mr. Donovan, so we can get started,” she states evenly, making sure to close the door behind me.
I show her a fake smile as I take in her office decor.
It’s exactly as I had imagined it. With its soft lighting and soothing, pastel colors, its aim is to create a relaxing and calm atmosphere where her clients feel safe enough to share their baggage with her. The room holds a desk off to one side, with two chairs placed strategically in the center facing each other. Notably, there is also the infamous couch that I suspect most of her patients avoid, paired with an armchair and side table at its feet. Without hesitation, I make my way over to it, settling in comfortably by placing my hands behind my head and crossing my legs at the ankles.
“Comfortable?” she asks before settling into the armchair.
“Extremely,” I purr.
She doesn’t say anything back, preferring to grab a pad of paper, a pen, and a recorder.
“Today’s date is March the thirtieth. The time is a quarter past four. I, Dr. Roxanne Seymour, am to conduct the first therapy session for Mr. Caleb Donovan,” she speaks into the recorder before placing it on the coffee table by her side.
“And probably last,” I quip with a teasing smirk.
“If that’s what you want,” she retorts, unbothered.
She really does know how to get under a man’s skin, doesn’t she?
“So, how is this supposed to go?” I ask impatiently after a full minute has gone by. “Do you ask me a bunch of questions, or do I just start vomiting out all my woes to you on my own?”
“How about we get to know each other a bit before you start sharing all your sins,” she says, concentrating on whatever she’s writing on her notepad.
“Sins?” My brow arches up high. “Do I look like a sinner to you?”
“Choirboy you are not,” she muses to herself.
I laugh. Because fuck… that was actually funny.
“Got me pegged so soon, Doc? This will get boring fast if you can read me so well.”
“Does monotony scare you?” she questions.
The fuck did that come from?
“No.”
She thins her lips as if not believing me.
I sit up straighter and look her in the eye.
“Nothing scares me. So quit fishing for things that aren’t there,” I explain, my usual cocky tone morphing into a warning.
“I only asked you a question, Mr. Donovan. Would you care to explain why a simple question got you so defensive?”
“Look, Doc. I’m only here because I was forced to be here. So let’s stop pretending that any of this shit is for my benefit and just tell me what I have to say to get the all-clear from you. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker we can go our separate ways and forget we ever met each other.”
Like you apparently have forgotten all about bumping into me.
“That’s not how therapy works.”
“That’s just it, Doc. I don’t care how it works. I just need to get this over with so I can get off the bench and back onto the rink. You feel me?”
She stares at me for a minute, the weight of her golden gaze making me feel all sorts of uncomfortable.
“Very well,” she finally relents. “How about we start there. Tell me why you got benched. What did you do to deserve such a punishment?”
“Easy. I started a fight.” I groan, falling back on the couch.
“And is that something you are prone to do? Fighting?”
“Actually, I’m more of a lover than a fighter, if you get my drift.” I flirtatiously wink at her, only to frown when she doesn’t look one bit flustered by it.
“So this fight that you started,” she proceeds with a professional tone, “was it a spur-of-the-moment thing? Did someone say something you didn’t like? Or was it your way of gaining attention?”
Fuck me and her questions.
“I get plenty of attention on my own without needing to punch someone’s lights out.”
“So why do it then?” she asks, sounding genuinely interested in my reasoning.
Because I wanted to feel something.
Because I wanted to feel physical pain instead of the one I’m dying from.
Because I wanted to see the world burn around me.
“Mr. Donovan… why did you start the fight?” she insists.
“It’s Caleb. My name is Caleb,” I snap. “Stop with all the Mr. Donovan crap. It’s unsettling.”
I bite into my inner cheek when she makes a note of that, too.
“Very well. Caleb, it is. You can refer to me as Dr. Seymour, but I’ll accept the diminutive ‘Doc’ if that makes you feel more comfortable. Now that we’ve established how to address each other, how about you tell me why you started that fight?”
“You want the real reason, Doc?” I place a sarcastic emphasis on the name.
“Yes. Very much so.”
“I was bored.”
“I see,” she muses as she takes her little pen and writes down some more. “And have you resorted to physical violence before when you felt bored?”
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ at the end arrogantly. “Usually, I just fuck the boredom away.”
Nothing.
Not even a blush.
The woman is a fucking robot.
“So, am I to assume that sexual release is your preferred coping mechanism to deal with boredom?” she asks, her expression void of any emotion.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Doc. I bet a good fucking would do wonders for you too.”
Again, nothing.
Not even a twitch.
It’s settled. This woman’s made of pure ice.
“How long have you felt like this?” she questions, bypassing my loaded remark entirely.
“You mean annoyed?” I blurt out, running my fingers through my hair.
“Discontent,” she rectifies.
“I’m not discontent.”
“Aren’t you? You started a fight during a game because—in your own words—you were bored. You seek out sexual experiences to fill the apathetic hole you feel inside since you have nothing else in your life that gives you quite the same pleasure. I’m sorry to be the one to say this, but that is the perfect definition of someone who is discontent with their life,” she explains calmly while still remaining unattached. “My question is, did you feel like this before or after your accident?”
I get up off the couch and stare at her angrily.
“You talk like you know me, but you don’t. You don’t know the first thing about me.”
Still seated, looking poised and fucking perfect, she cranes her neck back and fixes those amber orbs on me.
“You’re absolutely right. I don’t know you. Aside from what I’ve been told by your GM and Coach Byrne when they referred you to me, you, Mr. Donovan, are nothing more to me than a name on a piece of paper,” she says, tapping her notepad with her pen to drive the point home. “Having said that, if you give our sessions a genuine shot, I can tell you with complete confidence that once we are done, there is nothing I won’t know about you. Because that is my job—to know things you might have never felt comfortable saying out loud to anyone else. Not even to your brother, Jack, who I know you hold in such deep regard.”
I just stand there and look at her.
Her expression might be a blank canvas, unwilling to show any type of emotion whatsoever, but her eyes tell a different story. There’s that golden warmth in them again. It flickers at me, pleading with me, like she knows my pain, even if I’m reluctant to talk about it.
The genuine sincerity in her gaze has me sitting back down on the couch and lying my head back on the cushion.
“So tell me,” she starts, “did your discontentment occur before or after your car accident?”
“I’ve always acted out. It’s part of my charm,” I retort deprecatingly.
“Before then,” she mumbles to herself while writing the word down onto her notepad—the same one I imagine tearing to shreds and flicking into a fireplace until all that remains is soot and ash.
“It’s never been an issue, okay?” I try to defend. “I’ve always been a handful. It’s nothing new. Only now… the team has a problem with it.”
“Is that true, or is that how you feel?”
“I said it, didn’t I?” I retort, uncaring to hide my annoyance anymore.
“You did, but my question was, is it true? Do you feel that the team is no longer accommodating your expression of rebellion, or is it just your perception of the situation?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m merely asking you if the remark you made is a realistic account of your behavior, not a question of your honesty.”
“God, this will take forever if you continue with these sorts of mind games,” I grumble.
“Is that what you think therapy is? Mind games?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?” I tap my forehead with my fist, frustrated with her interrogation.
“Yes,” she says plainly. “See how easy that was. To answer a question with an actual answer.”
I let out an exaggerated exhale and just give her what she wants.
“You wanna know the truth?”
“It would help the process.”
“Fine. Yes, it’s true. Okay? Satisfied? I have always had a tenacity for being loud and getting myself in all sorts of trouble. It’s just how I’m wired. Everyone on the team knew that about me. And everyone didn’t give a fuck. Not until…”
“Until what? What changed for your team to no longer put up with such behavior?”
“You know what changed,” I mumble, disheartened.
“I do, but I want you to say. Out loud.”
“What changed? What fucking changed? I’ll tell you what changed! Jack isn’t here to clean up my messes anymore. Is that what you want to hear?” I blurt out, pissed.
“Is that the truth?” she asks, her gentle voice suddenly feeling like a warm balm to my soul.
I take in a deep breath and nod.
“Then yes. That’s what I wanted to hear. That’s what you needed to hear, too,” she explains, with that same gentle tone that had been absent for most of our session.
When she grows silent, I turn my head to the side and stare at her.
“So, aren’t you going to ask me? About Jack?”
“We have plenty of time to talk about your brother and his influence in your life. I think it best we approach your own ways of being before discussing such a traumatic event.”
Traumatic.
At least she got that shit right.
“Do you think fixing me will be that simple?” I let out another self-deprecating chuckle. “Is that what gets you off, Doc? Fixing broken things?”
“Do you believe yourself to be broken?”
Yes.
But I don’t give her the pleasure of a straight answer.
Not that one, at least.
“Everyone says you’re the best,” I state instead of answering her question.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but I have had many success stories.”
“Do you think I’ll be one of them?”
“That all depends.”
“On what?”
“If you want to be saved from your overwhelming grief or not.”
“If I wanted salvation, I’d go to a priest. Not a shrink.” I scoff.
“Therapist,” she corrects.
“What’s the difference?”
“A psychiatrist is prone to prescribing pharmaceutical drugs for their patients’ ailments. Therapists believe that other resources and tools are just as effective as any pill out there. Though in some cases, both methods are needed.”
“Do you think I need drugs?” I ask with a cocky smirk.
“I believe you self-medicate enough without adding prescription drugs into the mix.”
“Oh yeah? And how exactly do I self-medicate?” I retort.
“With alcohol, I suspect. Though your need for sexual release with various partners comes as a close second. And lately, your spots of rage indicate that neither coping mechanism has been able to help alleviate the pain.”
“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you, Doc?” I grumble, pissed that she knows me so well when I don’t know the first thing about her.
“I think you’re a man who is suffering. Immensely so. And that you are searching for any type of relief to dull that ache. But nothing is helping. Is it, Caleb?”
“You make me sound like some basket case.”
“Broken, I believe was the word you used,” she says, sadness coating her beautiful eyes.
I swallow the lump in my throat and get up off the couch.
“I think that’s enough for today. Don’t you?”
With her neck craned back, she eyes me tenderly, a tenderness that wasn’t there when I first walked in.
And I hate it.
I hate everything about it.
Because she’s right.
I don’t want to feel.
I don’t want to feel a goddamn thing.
And by the look in her eyes, feeling is exactly what she’s going to force me to do.
Not today, Satan.
Not fucking today.
Before she has time to utter a word, I race out of her office, only to find the blonde receptionist—who I just realized never even gave me her name—jump in my way.
“I can have my coffee break now,” she says. “I know just the broom closet we can hide in,” she coos and licks her lips provocatively.
I look at her up and down with utter disgust—all directed at myself rather than her.
“Yeah, that’s going to be a hard no. You can thank your boss for that,” I mutter with a snarl before rushing out of the office like my ass was on fire.
I was supposed to make it so that Dr. Roxanne Seymour wanted nothing to do with me.
And what did I do?
I fucking let her get inside my head.
Great job, motherfucker.
You’re really winning at life these days, aren’t you? Stupid piece of shit.
‘Do you believe yourself to be broken?’ I hear her voice in my head.
I almost wanted to laugh when she asked me that.
Because the answer is… I’m beyond broken.
I’m… empty.
Nothing.
If I don’t want her to see just how damaged I truly am, then I better bring my fucking A-game next time we meet.
And make sure that our next session will be our last.