Chapter Eleven
Winning Combo
Carter
“So, it sounds like things have been a little tough.”
Doctor Arman had a deep, somehow soothing voice — like a grandfather who’d worked years on a farm and had more wisdom than someone my age could grasp.
He didn’t dress like a grandpa working on a farm, though.
No, he was more like a hipster businessman — olive skin, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed close to his jaw, dark-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose.
Today he wore a rust-colored sweater layered over a button-up, the sleeves pushed to his forearms to show off an old-school leather watch that probably cost more than my first car.
His boots were scuffed but expensive, one hooked over the opposite knee as he relaxed on the brown tweed sofa across from me.
His office matched the vibe: soft lighting, warm tones, exposed brick on one wall and a leafy fig tree in the corner.
There were no motivational posters or degrees displayed, no certificates announcing his credibility.
Just books. Shelves of them — philosophy, psychology, poetry.
There were titles I’d never heard of and some I’d underlined back in my college psych electives and then promptly forgotten.
It felt more like a reading nook in a Brooklyn bookstore than a shrink’s office. And maybe that’s why I kept showing up.
I nodded, tossing a forest green hacky sack in the air a few times. Doctor Arman had learned from our third session that I opened up more when I had something to fidget with, and ever since then, he’d tossed me this little bean bag ball as soon as I walked in the door.
“It’s just a lot of pressure,” I said. “It doesn’t really make sense but it’s like… the better I do, the more insecure I feel. I’ve been outperforming my past seasons, but I’m second-guessing myself more than ever.”
“What does Doctor Marsh say?”
Doctor Marsh was the team’s sports psychologist, and I saw her once a month now that I felt like I was in a better place. I used to see her every week.
“She talks to me about the general pressure of being an athlete at the level I’m at, how that sort of second-guessing and pressure is normal to feel. She’s working with me on how to live in the discomfort.”
“Do you still hear Coach Leduc’s voice in your head?”
I caught the hacky sack and held it for a beat. “Always.”
“Can you quiet him?”
“Sometimes.”
Arman nodded, scribbling in his notepad.
“It hasn’t all been bad, though,” I added, as if this was some sort of progress report card rather than a therapy session.
I knew I had nothing to prove, and yet I always yearned to come into this room and have nothing to talk about. I longed for the day I’d plop down and say, “I don’t know, Doc! Everything has been great. Not sure what to say!”
“Like I said, I’m feeling good on the ice. More focused. Less in my head. Like I’m finally starting to play the game instead of overanalyzing every pass before I even make it.”
“And off the ice?”
My thoughts immediately raced to Livia.
Not that they weren’t always trained on her, but I was actively trying not to think about her during this session because I knew I couldn’t talk about her — not with the NDA she’d had me sign.
Then again… maybe I could talk about her without talking about her.
I shifted, tapping the hacky sack against the sole of my shoe before I started rolling it in my fingers. “I’ve been spending time with someone,” I said carefully. “A friend. Sort of a… mentor. She’s been helping me work through some stuff.”
Doc lifted one brow — not in a judgy way, just his usual “go on” expression — and I knew I’d walked right into it.
“She’s… experienced,” I said, already regretting the phrasing. “She has a lot to teach me, and I have a lot I can learn from her. And I’m trying to. She’s working with me, and I think it’s helping.”
I cringed.
“Shit. I don’t mean—she’s not, like, a coach. Or a player. Or…” I rubbed the back of my neck. “She just… knows stuff. About people. Pressure. Control.”
He didn’t say anything. I hated when he didn’t say anything, and yet it was very rare that I’d shut my trap long enough that he’d pose a question or offer an observation. He knew just the right amount of silence to leave me with that I would start yapping again and bury myself a little deeper.
“She’s teaching me things I didn’t even know I needed to learn,” I said, blowing out a breath. “Like how to be present. How to listen. How to show up without trying to perform all the time.”
“Have you talked to her about Leduc?”
I hesitated, stilling where I’d been shuffling the hacky sack from hand to hand.
“No.”
“No?” Arman scribbled that down. “I find that surprising, if she’s a mentor of sorts. Don’t you think she should know about that history?”
Everything inside me shut down at the thought, but I fought through the ache and worked through it. That was the whole fucking point of being in this room, after all.
“It’s weird. I trust her with stuff I’ve never told anyone, with doing things I’ve never done before. But also… I don’t really trust her at all.”
Doc tilted his head slightly. “I don’t think I follow.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees and hacky sack gripped between my hands as I tried to explain. “She’s got this… shield. Like titanium-grade. She’s composed all the time. Calm. Controlled. She doesn’t do messy.” I paused. “I don’t think she can do messy.”
I felt my chest tighten as I said it, like I was betraying her just by putting it into words.
“If I told her about Leduc — about the way his voice still echoes in my head every time I fuck up — I think she’d hear me. But I also think she’d laugh at me. I think she’d see it for what it is, for what I am.” I swallowed, sitting up straight again with my eyes on the floor. “Weak.”
Arman didn’t flinch at the word or assure me I wasn’t weak. He didn’t there, there me, either. He just gave me one of those patient nods, leaving me space to explore that feeling.
When I didn’t say anything else, he cleared his throat. “It kind of sounds like you’ve written an ending to this story in your head without any of it playing out in reality.”
That shut me up.
I stared down at my hands. They looked too big in my lap. I found myself overanalyzing them for the first time in my life, like I’d just realized they were as awkward as the rest of me.
Then, I thought about how those hands had graced Livia’s body, how she’d let me touch her, taste her. I looked at my dumb fingers and wondered again why she was wasting her time with me.
Because you’re paying her, dumbass.
Still, I wondered if Doc was making a fair assessment. When I’d first asked Livia about what was wrong the night she came to my place, she’d brushed me off. But after our lesson, she’d opened up a bit more. Not too much — but enough for me to see that she had warmth beneath her cool exterior.
There were more layers to her than she presented to the world.
I just didn’t think she was eager to let anyone, least of all me, peel them back.
But did that mean she would judge if I showed her my own vulnerability?
I thought about our first lesson, how ashamed I’d been when I’d busted like a fucking teenager without her touching me.
She’d soothed me. She’d assured me I had nothing to be ashamed of.
Why did it still feel fucking terrifying to consider telling her about Coach?
Another thought hit me like a brick after that one: would she feel more comfortable opening up to me if I let her in first?
“You think telling her would help?” I asked Doctor Arman, voice rougher than I meant.
“I think you might be surprised,” he said. “Maybe don’t decide who she is for her. I don’t know much about her, but if she’s been a mentor to you like you said, then I think this could unlock a missing piece of the puzzle for her. And in turn, help both of you.”
Doctor Arman’s words buzzed around in my head like a trapped fly as I left his office. I didn’t know why it was easy to admit every sexual shortcoming I had to Liv, but the thought of confessing the origin of my insecurities made me want to run out in traffic.
I pulled my phone from my pocket when I exited the office building and headed toward my Range Rover Sport in the parking lot. The group chat with the guys had a dozen missed texts.
Daddy P: Save the date, benchwarmers. Having a party at our house on February 21.
Tanny Boy: … to celebrate marrying the love of my life. There, I filled in the gaps for you, Daddy P.
Brittzy: Lmao I was about to ask if Chef Patel was forcing this on you so she could try out a new grilling recipe. No way would you willingly host a party.
Daddy P: It’ll be outside. By the pool. Casual attire.
Tanny Boy: Please, try to contain your excitement, Goalie. We need all your energy for the playoff race.
Su Man: Who the fuck added me to this chat?
Daddy P: Like it or not, you’re part of the group now, Aleks. Think your wife could make an appearance?
Su Man: She wouldn’t miss a chance to dance with Ava.
Su Man: Date saved. I’m leaving this chat.
Brittzy: Aw, come on, Su Man! Don’t act like you don’t love it. Especially when we rope you into golfing and roast you.
Tanny Boy: Never misses on the ice. Only misses on the green.
Su Man has left the group.
Brittzy: What a pylon.
I chuckled, thumbing out a reply once I was in the Range.
I rolled the windows down, thankful for the short reprieve the Florida winter brought us from the extreme heat.
It rarely got cold, especially by Canadian standards, but it cooled enough to enjoy the outdoors without sweating your balls off, at least.
Me: Sorry, was in therapy. You know I’m there, Daddy P.
Tanny Boy: Did Doc fix your game yet?
Brittzy: You saw him try to make a breakout pass and hit the ref in the ass last week, right?
Tanny Boy: That wasn’t a pass, that was a cry for help.
Daddy P: Therapy won’t fix weak wrists and bad edgework.
Me: Joke’s on you. I’ve got strong wrists AND unresolved childhood trauma. That’s a winning combo, baby.
Brittzy: Maybe you should put “strong wrists” in your dating profile. Never heard anything that could drop panties faster than that.
Me: The panty dropping starts with my impeccable fashion sense. “Casual attire” means vintage college hoodie, socks with holes, and Crocs, right, Daddy P?
Tanny Boy: Is that what you wore to practice this morning?
Brittzy: Nah, that was the hoodie with the mysterious stain on the sleeve. Real versatile piece.
Me: It’s not a stain, it’s character. I’m cultivating layers, gentlemen.
Daddy P: Cultivate a shot on net.
A few more chirps rang out in the chat before Daddy P threatened to give us all wedgies if we didn’t shut up. I wasn’t normally scared of a teammate, but Will Perry was the exception to that rule, so I chuckled and tossed my phone onto the passenger seat before throwing the SUV in drive.
But before I let my foot off the brake, I eyed the little device again, Doc’s words still playing in my ear.
“Fuck it,” I finally said, and I put the car in park again to shoot off one more text.
Me: So… how about that date?