Chapter 8
Ash
“Hey, come on in,” I say when I open the door for Doc Mackey. She texted a little while ago to see if she could come early, and I told her to head on over.
Her eyes travel down and back up my body briefly before her jaw sets.
She mutters a thanks as she walks past me into the house.
I look down at the gray sweatpants and black v-neck t-shirt I’m wearing, and frown.
My feet are bare as well, and I wonder if she’s angry at me for not dressing more professionally.
It was a long day at practice, and I wanted to be comfortable. She’ll have to deal.
The doc herself is more dressed up than the last time she came over.
She has on a black skirt, tighter than the one she wore the first day I met her, but not so tight it looks like she’s trying to show off her body.
The sweater she wears hugs her torso, so I see she has a nice figure, with full breasts and hips that give her an hour-glass shape.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask as we head to the living room.
She flops onto the couch after setting her laptop on the coffee table. Her mouth works silently as if she wants to say something before she finally decides on, “Water is fine.”
I go to the water cooler, fill a glass, then go back to the couch and hand it to her.
“Now tell me what you really want to drink,” I say as she’s about to thank me.
Her mouth hangs open in surprise as I call her on the lie.
She sighs. “I don’t suppose you have any wine?”
I consider what’s in my cabinets. “Does it have to be good wine?”
“No. I’ll take Two Buck Chuck at this point,” she says.
I’m not entirely sure what that is, but the name says it all, so I head back into the kitchen and open the cabinet that contains a built-in wine rack. I keep some on hand for entertaining, even though I don’t drink it myself. I pull out a bottle and hold it up.
“Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon?” I ask.
Her face eases. “That’s better than I was expecting.”
I’m not sure how to take the comment, but I let it go and fish in the designated kitchen gadget drawer for the corkscrew. I find it in the back and open the bottle.
“Tough day?” I ask as I open cabinets, trying to remember which one contains the half dozen wine glasses I own, again, purely for entertaining.
Not that I ever actually entertain. But maybe someday.
I find the glasses and pour her some wine. I look at her when she doesn’t answer and find her staring out the large windows that overlook the water.
“Dr. Mackey?” I ask as I walk over and hand her the wine.
She snaps out of her daze, then winces as she looks at me. Her hand goes to her neck to rub it, and I wonder if she just pulled something.
“Don’t call me that,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice. I raise a brow, and her face falls.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I…I was on a first date earlier in the evening, and it didn’t go well. But that’s not your fault, so I shouldn’t take my bad mood out on you.”
The words come out as a whoosh of breath, and she deflates in front of me as she takes a big gulp of her wine.
That same twinge I felt days ago is back at the mention of her date, but I ignore it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as she winces again.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “I’m here to help you, so let’s focus on that.
Just do me a favor and call me Gray.” She sips her wine again.
“I normally insist my students call me Dr. Mackey for professional reasons, but you’re not really a student, and it feels odd to have you use my title while we’re sitting in your living room. ”
I shrug one shoulder as I sit across from her on the loveseat as before. “Fair enough…Gray. So where do we start?”
“Let’s start with your homework,” she says. “What did you decide your ideal image is?”
I lean back and think a moment. I’ve been considering this for days, and I’m still not sure I have a complete picture.
“I guess my ideal image isn’t that much different than Karl Malone’s,” I say. “I imagine myself as the guy the team can depend on. The guy who can deliver a goal when we need it. But that’s gotta be the ideal image of most athletes, right?”
Gray shakes her head once but stops on another wince.
“Not necessarily,” she says. “You see yourself in relationship to your team. Your ideal image is dependent on how they view you. Not all athletes are that way. Many – too many – want the glory. They’re happy to be in the spotlight while their teammates see them as the star.
You want to be the guy ‘who can deliver a goal when we need it.’ Not just you. The team.”
I nod as I mull this over. The truth is, the ‘We’ guy in me has only come about in recent years.
If I’m brutally honest with myself, I was very much that ‘I’ guy in my first few seasons in the NHL.
The last couple years have been humbling, though, and my team approach has apparently changed because of it.
“So what does that mean for me?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet,” she says. “What else can you tell me about your ideal image? If I were to ask your teammates what they thought of you as a player, what would you want them to say?”
“What I’d want them to say and what each one of them would say are different things,” I argue.
“I’d want them to say they respect me and know they can count on me to do my job.
And maybe that’s what Kelsier would say, but Kingston, our goalie, would probably say he wants me to be a scoring machine.
The more goals I make, the more pressure it takes off him to keep the puck out of the net. ”
Her brows pinch in thought. “You’re right,” she says. “Your teammates will have their own hopes for you based on their personal priorities and outlooks. So what should you take away from that?”
I just look at her. “Um…”
“If everyone wants something different from you…,” she prompts, and her point clicks into place.
“I can’t please everyone,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says. “It’s not wrong to want your teammates to be able to depend on you, but maybe you’re letting your desire to be what everyone needs overwhelm you. Maybe the trash talk is getting to you because you’re afraid of letting everyone down.”
I think for a moment. That’s a possibility.
“So what do I do about it?” I ask.
“About that part, I’m not sure yet,” she says.
“In the meantime, I’ve been looking into anger management techniques we can work on.
” She opens her laptop and boots it up before opening a document.
One hand goes to her neck again as her other runs across the mousepad, and she grimaces as she rubs near her nape.
“Are you alright?” I ask. “You keep rubbing your neck.”
She starts to shake her head but stops. “I’m fine. I just slept wrong and strained something. That’s what started the whole day out like shit.”
“Do you want-”
“Stress inoculation,” she says before I can finish the thought.
“What?”
“Stress inoculation,” she repeats, looking at the document on her computer. “Basically, we’ll develop a toolkit of responses to trash talk for you, and you’ll practice using them so your go-to response isn’t anger or frustration.”
“You want me to practice trash talking back?”
“No, by ‘response’ I mean more of an internal response,” she explains. “For example, when someone says something offensive to you, you’ll have a store of happy memories or funny thoughts you automatically think of that might help even out your mood. Your homework for next time is to-”
“Create a list of happy memories and funny thoughts?” I cut in.
She smiles. “You’re a fast learner.”
Her phone pings, and her head jerks toward it, which immediately causes her to put a hand on her neck and start rubbing again.
I can’t take it anymore, and I get up off the loveseat to sit down next to her. She looks at me in alarm.
“What are you-”
“Turn around,” I tell her. “I’m tired of watching you wince. Let me massage your neck for you.”
Her eyes flare wide, and she starts to shake her head before she remembers that will hurt. “No, I-”
I hold up my hands in innocence. “I promise I won’t do anything inappropriate,” I say. “It’s just obvious you’re in pain, and I want to help. I studied Kinesiology in college. I know what I’m doing.”
Maybe that’s a stretch. I’m not actually a massage therapist, but the mention of my college study seems to persuade her. I see surprise and maybe interest in her eyes. I notice they’re a light golden brown with rings of dark gray around the irises.
“Turn around,” I repeat.
There’s indecision on her face, but after a few seconds she gingerly shifts on the couch to give me her back.
“Right side?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, so I reach up and sweep it over her left shoulder. I think I feel her shiver.
I start massaging her neck and shoulder, but her sweater bunches under my fingers, and I have to keep adjusting my grip.
“What are you wearing under this?” I ask. “Can you take it off?”
Her body stiffens. “I…have on a bra and camisole,” she offers hesitantly, and my brain searches for what a camisole is.
“That’s like an undershirt?”
“More or less.”
“Would you mind taking off the sweater? It would make this easier.”
She hesitates for several seconds before grabbing the hem of the sweater and pulling it over her head. Surprise freezes me for a second as I’m treated to the sight of large tattooed feathered wings that stretch across her shoulders and halfway down her back into the camisole.
“Wow. I wasn’t expecting those.”
She doesn’t say anything as I push her hair over her shoulder again, then reach up without thinking to trace the arch of one wing. Her shiver is obvious this time, and I pull my hand away.
“Sorry,” I say. “They’re just really beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she says softly.