Drained by the Doctor (Straight College Jocks #15)

Chapter 1

“So, what’s the problem?”

Dr. Maren sits across from me on a rolling stool, one ankle crossed over his knee.

White coat, stethoscope, the whole look.

Like any doctor I’ve ever seen. Except we’re in his house.

The exam table I’m perched on is legit, padded vinyl with that strip of paper rolled over it, but through the wall I can hear a washing machine running.

“Coach didn’t tell you?”

“Loosely.” He clicks his pen. “But I need to hear it from you.”

Damn. I don’t even know this guy. Never seen him before today. And now I’m supposed to spill my guts? Me. The guy who fills stadiums. The guy every freshman knows by name, whose arm was supposed to carry the team to a conference championship this year.

Except we didn’t. And it was my fault. Coach Briggs knows something is off, and instead of sending me to the team physician, he slipped me an address on a folded napkin and said, Go see my guy. He’s discreet.

Discreet. In other words, some hack who takes cash and prescribes medicine without asking too many questions.

“Look,” I say, and the paper under me crinkles. “I won’t go into much detail?—”

“I need the details,” he says. “All of it.”

Why the hell does he need all the details? I thought the whole point of being discreet was not having to know too much.

“Reid.” Dr. Maren’s voice is patient. A deep, even baritone. “Nothing leaves this room. Not even your coach knows what you say here. I’m just here to help you get back on the field and feel like yourself again. But for that, I need details.”

He has this calm, reassuring energy about him, even with the washing machine tumbling and thumping and spinning in the next room like it’s trying to break through the wall. Dark, intense eyes. Late thirties, early forties, I’d say, judging by the silver at his temples.

But I know this type. The I’m-here-to-help-you type. In the end, they all want the same thing: money. And they’ll say whatever to get it.

“Doc,” I try. “I’m just having trouble sleeping, okay? That’s why I lose focus in the middle of a play. So if you could prescribe something for me, I’ll be out of your hair. Ambien, trazodone, hell, even some Xanax. Whatever knocks me out so I can be sharp on the field.”

Dr. Maren shakes his head. “I could give you any of those. You’d sleep like a baby. And then you’d show up to practice foggy, sluggish, with slower reaction times. Benzos and football don’t mix, Reid. You’d be handing your starting spot to your backup on a silver platter.”

He taps his pen against his chin, studying me. “If we don’t get to the root of the insomnia, we’re just slapping a Band-Aid on it. And that’s not how I operate. What I need you to do is dig a little deeper.”

Right. Here we go. Dig a little deeper. The shrink routine. I came here for sleeping pills, not a goddamn therapy session. This dude is taking way too much pride in not being your standard pill-pusher. And I don’t have the patience for it.

“Alright, I think I’m in the wrong place,” I say, swinging my legs off the side of the exam table. “Thanks for your time, doc, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Reid.” He says my name again, calm as a puddle. “Ten minutes. Give me ten minutes. If at the end of it you still feel the same way, I’ll give you whatever you want. No questions asked. Deal?”

This is so stupid. I have a hundred better things to do. But I’m already here. Ten minutes. Ten minutes and I walk out with my pills and forget this house and its weird half-clinic vibe ever existed. Ten minutes and I get back to what matters.

Football.

I sigh. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

“Let’s start with what’s keeping you awake at night.”

“I don’t know. Stress, I guess.”

“What kind of stress? Performance anxiety?”

“Nah, not on the field.” I pause. “Off the field, maybe.”

“Give me an example.”

I lean back on the table and stare at the diplomas on the wall. Am I really about to tell this stranger? I’ve never said this out loud before. Not to my boys. Not even to Coach.

“I can’t get hard, okay?” I force myself to look at him when I say it. “With girls.”

Dr. Maren doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look surprised or judgmental. He nods, like I told him I had a headache.

“Okay,” he says, scribbling on his notepad. “Go on.”

“Go on? That’s it. That’s the whole problem.

It’s fucking embarrassing. What do you think girls say when they get with Reid Sutton and find out he’s packing a wet noodle?

It’s only a matter of time before word gets around.

And these are hot girls, doc. Dude to dude.

You know? Big tits, juicy asses. I should be going to town on them, not lying there worrying about whether my dick’s gonna cooperate. ”

Fuck. My face is burning. I can feel it. I’m sitting here in some guy’s laundry room turned doctor’s office talking about my limp dick. I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

“Do you worry about performance before you’re even with them?” Dr. Maren asks, not looking up from his notes. “During the buildup?”

“All the fucking time. I get stuck in my head. Like, okay, we’re kissing, cool.

But then her hand starts drifting lower, and it’s like a countdown.

Oh fuck, here we go. Please work. Please.

For the love of God, don’t let me down. And then…

nothing. Or worse, I’ll be semi-hard when we start, but I’ll go soft the second she touches it. ”

“Is this recent? Or has it been a pattern for a while?”

“It’s definitely gotten worse.”

I think back to last weekend. Hailey, her hands fumbling at my belt in the back of her dad’s SUV. That tight feeling in my chest. The panic. I practically shoved her off me. Called a cab. She probably thinks I’m a freak. And maybe she’s right.

“What about on your own?” Dr. Maren asks.

“Sorry?”

“When you’re alone. Can you get an erection then?”

“Sometimes. I mean, yeah, usually.” I shift on the crinkling paper. “Sometimes it takes a while. And I have to really focus. But I don’t wanna jerk off too much because I’m worried it’ll make the problem worse. Like I’ll be drained when it actually counts, you know?”

He nods again, scribbling another note. This guy writes a lot.

“Have you explored the idea that you might not be attracted to these girls?”

What?

“No. Absolutely not.” I’m offended. I am. Who the hell is he to question that? “I’m telling you, doc, these are dimes. Ten out of tens. I’d have to be blind, deaf, and dead not to be attracted to them.”

“You can recognize someone is attractive without feeling desire for them.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the exam table. “You trying to say I’m gay? Is that what this is?”

“I’m not saying anything, Reid. I’m asking questions to understand the full picture.”

I laugh. It’s a harsh, humorless bark. “The full picture is I’m one of the best quarterbacks in the conference.

I can thread a ball between two defenders.

I can read a defense before the snap. I can change the play at the line.

But I can’t get my dick to work. That’s the picture. And it’s driving me insane.”

“So you have never…” He trails off, leaving the sentence hanging.

I know what he’s asking. He wants to know if I’ve ever got hard for a guy. The thought makes my stomach clench.

“No,” I say, my voice tight. “Never. I’m not gay. I love pussy. I’ve been chasing girls since forever. That’s not the fucking problem here. Okay?”