CHAPTER TWELVE
Cole
Dr. Hawley’s office doesn’t look clinical.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Sure, it’s part of our facility but it feels a million miles away when I step into it. No fluorescent lighting. No sterile walls.
Instead, there’s a leather chair sitting across from a couch I have zero intention of sitting on, bookshelves lining one wall, and soft music playing low enough that it’s almost background static.
Still feels like a trap.
“Cole.”
I glance over as Doc steps into the room carrying a mug of coffee in one of her petite hands.
“Thanks for fitting me in.”
“Of course.” She motions in the general area of her office. “Have a seat wherever you’re comfortable.”
Comfortable.
Right.
I choose the patterned chair farthest from her desk and sit like I’m preparing for a deposition instead of therapy.
Her mouth twitches like she notices. Probably because she does. She’s too observant.
She settles into the leather chair across from me, crossing one leg over the other, and placing a notepad on her knee. “Coach Brooks mentioned that you wanted to talk, and I’m so glad you decided to.”
Wanted.
Interesting way to frame being sent to the team psychologist because your entire, very early career, feels like it’s already circling the drain.
“Something like that.”
Silence stretches.
I glance around the room again, trying to decide what I’m supposed to say here.
Hi. I can’t throw a football right anymore and apparently my brain is broken because of it.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“That’s okay.”
Doesn’t feel okay.
She studies me for a second. Her measured patience makes me even more uncomfortable.
“So,” she says gently, “where would you like to start?”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “That assumes I know.”
“Fair.”
Another pause as I lean back in the chair and scrub a hand over my jaw. “Coach thinks this might help.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I have a game on Sunday.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”
Of course it isn’t.
I exhale slowly. “I think I need to get my shit together.”
“And what does that mean to you?”
Jesus Christ. I shift in my chair. “Is this how this goes? You answer questions with more questions?”
“Sometimes.”
I stare at her. She stares right back.
No judgment. No pity. Which honestly might be worse.
“Cole, I can help you,” she says. “But I need something to work with. Right now you’re circling every answer instead of actually giving one.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not used to talking about my feelings.”
Her smile is soft. “I gathered that.”
There’s enough dry humor in her tone that I almost smile. Almost.
“What’s the issue?” she asks finally. “The real one.”
Where do I even begin? The investigation. My dad. The pressure. The fact that every throw suddenly feels like it carries the weight of my entire damn career.
“The yips,” I finally say. Safer than all the rest.
She nods once. “What about them?”
“I can’t explain it. One game I’m fine and the next it’s like I can’t trust myself anymore.” I lean forward, forearms braced on my knees. “And now the investigation on top of it. Every bad throw makes me look guilty.”
“That sounds overwhelming.”
“It’s exhausting.” The admission slips out before I can stop it.
Dr. Hawley stays quiet for a second before asking carefully, “When did you first notice the change?”
I look away toward the bookshelf. “It’s on and off. Probably a few weeks ago.”
“And what was happening in your life then?”
I shake my head. “You really do always circle back to feelings.”
“Because usually they matter.”
My chuckle is sarcastic.
“This only works if you want to be here, Cole,” she says calmly. “Just sitting in that chair isn’t going to magically fix anything.”
I nod. She’s right. I know it. And fuck, I’m so tired of feeling this way. The pressure. Hearing my father’s voice every time shit goes wrong. Wondering if everyone else is starting to see me the way I see myself lately—broken.
I stand abruptly before I can unpack any of that. “Same time next week?”
Her brows lift slightly like she knows exactly what I’m doing—retreating—but she doesn’t call me on it.
“For now,” she says.
“Great.” I head for the door.
“Cole?”
My hand pauses on the handle.
“The fact you showed up today, that you had the courage to, matters more than you think.”
I don’t answer.
Mostly because I’m not sure I believe her.
Partly because I want to.