14. Alex Sebring
Chapter 14
Alex Sebring
The leather sofa feels too soft beneath me, like it’s trying to swallow me whole. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, fidgeting with the band of my Rolex—a habit I can’t break when I’m here.
The room around me is calm with warm lighting. Every detail is designed to put me at ease. There’s psychology behind design choices.
Charleston taught me that.
My thoughts circle back to last night with her. The way her laugh felt like it belonged to me, the way her fingertips traced along my skin, her voice soft and teasing… until it wasn’t teasing at all. She didn’t disappoint—not in the slightest. She kept her word, just as I did. And when she called me sir in that breathy, almost playful way, it unraveled every last thread of my composure.
I still feel the ghost of her touch, haunting me just beneath the fabric of my shirt, as if my skin refuses to forget.
I exhale slowly, dragging myself back to the present.
The door opens, pulling me from my thoughts. Dr. Whitfield steps inside, his usual warm, easy smile in place. He takes a seat across from me, notebook balanced on his knee, and leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed and inviting.
“Good to see you, Alex.” He always speaks with the practiced ease of a therapist. “Tell me how things have been since our last session.”
That familiar old discomfort creeps in, the one that always shows up when I have to talk about my feelings. It’s not that I had a bad childhood. Far from it. I grew up in a wonderful family, but we weren’t exactly the type to sit around and share our emotions. Feelings weren’t ignored. They just weren’t discussed much.
And on the rugby field? Emotions were a liability. There was no room for vulnerability in a game built on brute force and discipline. You played hard, kept your head down, and if something was bothering you, you dealt with it quietly on your own.
I shift slightly in my seat, fidgeting with my watch. “Things are good. Really good actually.”
“Sounds like a new development in your life.” He nods thoughtfully, giving me a moment. “Tell me what’s making you happy.”
I can sum it up in one word: Charleston.
“I met someone––an American in Sydney on a job assignment for three months.”
Dr. Whitfield nods, jotting down a note. “Okay. Tell me how that’s going.”
“It’s early on, but it feels good. She’s uncomplicated. And for the first time in a long time, I feel at peace. Like she’s exactly what I need right now.”
“ Uncomplicated . That’s interesting, given what you’ve told me before. You said you want something serious and long-term—a marriage, a family, the whole package. So why this? Why choose a relationship that’s likely to end when she goes back home in three months?”
Dr. Whitfield leans back in his chair, giving me space to find my words.
“For one, she’s different.”
“How so?”
“Everyone I’ve ever been with wanted the image, the status, the lifestyle that goes along with dating someone like me. But with her, there’s none of that She doesn’t care about what I’ve done or what I have. In fact, she doesn’t know about it at all. She likes being with me.”
Dr. Whitfield studies me for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “It’s understandable that your past relationship, particularly with your former girlfriend, would influence how you approach things now.”
I let out a slow breath, his words settling over me. “Unfortunately, it shapes everything I do when it comes to women.” The words feel heavy, like I’ve been carrying them for far too long. “With Celeste, it was all an act. She pretended to love me, but the whole time she was using me—turning our relationship into content for likes and comments on social media.”
My jaw tightens at the memory, the sting of betrayal still fresh despite the time that’s passed. “The worst part? I didn’t see it coming. She made me feel safe, like I could trust her, and then she gutted me.” And that makes me feel stupid.
Dr. Whitfield lets the silence settle, giving me the space to untangle the knot of emotions that comes with saying it all out loud. That’s his thing—he never rushes.
“But Charleston is nothing like that. I’m safe with her. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I can be the real me.”
“It sounds like you’ve found something meaningful that truly matters to you.”
“It’s early, but yeah, I believe I may have.”
“So, the real question becomes this––what happens when it’s time for her to leave Sydney and return home?”
I shift in my seat, my fingers fiddling with the clasp of my watch. “I’m not thinking about that right now. If I let myself go there, I’ll ruin what we have in the present. And I don’t want that.” I inhale and exhale to slow my racing thoughts. “Being with her is peaceful. I want to hold on to that feeling for as long as I can.”
Dr. Whitfield nods, flipping a page in his notebook with the same calm, measured demeanor he always has. “All right then. Let’s switch gears and revisit something we haven’t talked about in a while. Where are you with your rugby career and processing how it ended?”
The familiar knot tightens in my chest, and I press my thumb harder against the clasp of my watch. “Badly,” I admit, the words cutting sharper than I intended. “That’s how it ended. And I still haven’t processed it… or accepted it.”
Dr. Whitfield doesn’t push, doesn’t prod. He watches me with that steady, practiced look that always seems to say, There’s more on your mind, and I’m not going anywhere.
I exhale slowly, feeling the burden of memories I’ve kept buried for too long. “The injury wasn’t bad luck. He did it on purpose. And I never said or did anything about it.”
“We barely touched on your inaction before. Where are you with that now?”
Frustration rises, hot and simmering just beneath the surface. “At first, I couldn’t do anything—I was too injured to go after him, no matter how much I wanted to. Then I convinced myself I’d heal, that I’d make a comeback, and going after him wouldn’t help my career. But that comeback never happened. I didn’t recover. And I told myself it wasn’t worth it, that going after him wouldn’t change anything. But here I am, two years later, still stuck. Still madder than hell. And I can’t shake it.”
“That anger is weighing you down. Have you thought more about what closure might look like for you?”
I drop my gaze to the floor, a sharp exhale escaping me as the corner of my mouth twists in a bitter, almost involuntary scoff. “What’s the point? Confronting him won’t undo what he did.”
“Closure isn’t about undoing the past. It’s about releasing the control it has over you.”
His words land like a punch I’m not ready to take, heavy with a truth I’ve been dodging for too long. I nod, barely, just enough to acknowledge what he’s said though the idea of acting on it feels impossible. The anger still runs too hot. If I tried to confront him now, I wouldn’t trust myself to keep it together. One smug look, one careless comment, and I’d lose it—completely. And then what? I’d be the one painted as the villain in the story he started.
The frustration bubbles over. “I get it, I do. But right now? If I saw him, I’d probably throw the first punch. I’m still too pissed off.”
The familiar ache of regret stabs at me, sharp and unforgiving. I had at least three more years left in me—three years of playing the game I loved. And he stole that from me. I didn’t get to decide when my career ended. He made that call, and I’ve been stuck with the fallout ever since.
Dr. Whitfield watches me, letting the silence stretch long enough for me to feel the impact of my own words. “You’re not ready yet. And that’s okay. But at some point, you’ll need to deal with it—whether it’s through confrontation or finding peace another way. Otherwise, it’ll keep holding you back.”
The tension loosens a bit, but the heaviness remains. Someday , I think to myself. Maybe someday. But not today.
Dr. Whitfield shifts in his chair, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. “Let’s talk about the family business. How’s that going?”
Another knot tightens in my chest, frustration settling in. “The hotel business isn’t what I want to do with my life. But I don’t want to let my family down either. They expect me to step up now that rugby is over for me.”
My parents don’t get it. They don’t understand what rugby was to me. It wasn’t just a job—it was my identity, my purpose. And then, in an instant, it was gone. Ripped away from me without warning.
Now, as the eldest son, all eyes are on me to take over the family business. My father’s ready to retire, and everyone assumes I’ll slide flawlessly into the role of president as if it’s the obvious next step. But it’s not.
I can’t bury everything I’ve lost and pretend this is what I want.
“They think I can handle it, but the truth is I’m drowning.” The admission hits me hard, and I glance up, meeting Dr. Whitfield’s steady gaze. “I don’t want to let them down, but every day feels like I’m pushing a boulder uphill.”
“What makes it feel that way?”
“My dyslexia.” The confession is heavy, as if saying it out loud gives it more power. “In rugby, it didn’t matter. On the field, I could hide it. But not in the business world. It’s impossible to avoid. I had to hire an assistant to read and respond to emails. Without help, it would take me all day to get through them.”
Hiding it feels like a job in and of itself. I know people think I’m lazy because I hand off simple tasks like asking someone to read an email out loud. They have no idea how much effort it takes for me to keep up.
But the worst part isn’t what they think. It’s what I feel. Stupid. Weak. Like a kid who never learned how to read properly, stuck pretending I’ve got it all together when the truth is I don’t. Not even close.
“Alex, dyslexia isn’t a weakness. It’s a challenge, yes, but it’s not a reflection of your intelligence or worth. You’ve spent your whole life excelling in an environment that didn’t depend on reading—an environment where you thrived. That’s no small thing. The skills that made you successful in rugby—resilience, problem-solving, leadership—can apply to your work now. You just need to approach it differently.”
Dr. Whitfield pauses, giving me a moment to let his words sink in.
“It’s not about hiding your dyslexia. It’s about managing it in a way that works for you. There’s no shame in using tools or relying on others for help. Real leadership isn’t about doing everything yourself. And trust me, the people around you don’t think you’re lazy. In fact, they’d probably respect you even more if you let them know what you’re dealing with.”
Respect me more? Maybe in theory. But the reality is different. Letting people know about my dyslexia isn’t an option. I’ve seen what happens when you give others that kind of power over you—they twist it, use it against you. They make you feel small, broken, incompetent.
I’ve fought too hard to build the life I have, to carve out respect in a world that doesn’t leave room for flaws. I’m not about to hand someone a weapon they could use to tear it all down. Some things are better left in the dark.
Dr. Whitfield’s expression softens, his question turning more personal. “How have you been managing the depression and anxiety?”
“Better, thanks to Charleston, but both are still there. It hasn’t been as heavy lately, but I feel it lurking beneath the surface.”
“Like it’s not gone but waiting for the right moment to rear its ugly head?”
“Exactly. Sometimes the anxiety blindsides me, especially at the office.” My words falter, heavy with my next thought. “What if I can’t get past this?”
“You’re not supposed to conquer it all at once, Alex. Life doesn’t come with a perfect plan. It’s not about avoiding mistakes. It’s about how you recover from them. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s okay not to have all the answers right now.”
“Easier said than done.”
Dr. Whitfield offers a small, reassuring smile. “It is. But the goal isn’t perfection, Alex. It’s about finding ways to manage the pressure before it becomes too much. One step at a time. And there’s an idea I’ve been wanting to suggest—canine therapy.”
I raise a brow, half surprised. “You think I need a dog?”
“A dog could help more than you realize. They have a way of providing a calming presence, especially on tough days.”
I consider it for a moment. “I like dogs a lot, but with everything going on, I don’t think I have the time for one.”
Dr. Whitfield nods, not pushing the matter. “That’s fair. It doesn’t have to be right now, but it’s something to think about for the future. In the meantime, focus on the positives—like your time with this new woman in your life. Take it one day at a time. You don’t have to solve everything all at once.”
The simplicity of his words strikes a chord. One day at a time feels manageable, even if the bigger picture still looms uncertain.
“We should also talk about setting some boundaries with your family. It might relieve some of the pressure you’re feeling. Expectations are much easier to manage when they’re not running your life.”
Easy for him to say. “Your mum isn’t a spicy Samoan woman.”
Dr. Whitfield smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Fair point, but it’s still worth trying. Sometimes people don’t realize how much pressure they’re putting on you until you let them know.”
He gives me a moment to absorb that.
“And as for your injury, finding closure might open up new paths you haven’t considered yet. Whether it’s a conversation, an outlet, or something else—it could be the key to moving forward.”
Moving forward. That’s what I need, isn’t it? Not just for my family, or my career, but for myself.
Dr. Whitfield closes his notebook, signaling the end of today’s session. “You’re making progress, Alex. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”
We exchange a brief handshake as I rise to leave, his words still echoing in my mind. Moving forward. It’s not a solution, but maybe, for now, it’s enough.
“Just remember, Alex, healing is a process. It takes time. And it’s okay to ask for help along the way.”
I leave the office feeling lighter. My thoughts are still spinning, but the tight knot in my chest feels a little looser, like I can finally catch my breath.
As I step into the hallway, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Hey big guy! How’s your day going?
A small smile spreads across my face. For the first time in a long time, things don’t feel so heavy, so hopeless. Maybe—just maybe—things will be okay after all.
I start typing a response, my fingers hovering over the screen longer than they should. Then, with a quiet sigh, I give in and switch to voice dictation, the way I prefer to send texts.
Hey, favorite. My day’s been great. Better now actually. Any chance you can slip away from your coworkers for the whole weekend? I have somewhere I want to take you.
Hmm. Give me a little time to come up with something. I think I can pull it off. Where are we going?
It’s a surprise.
There’s a beat of silence before her next message pops up.
A mystery, huh? I like it. Sounds exciting, big guy.
It will be. Promise.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket, that smile still playing on my lips. For the first time in a while, I feel like I have something to look forward to.