10. Chapter 9
Rhys wanted to throw his catcher gear against the wall in the locker room. He didn’t even know what was wrong with him. He’d let one ball get past him, then it was like all his stitching came loose. He couldn’t do anything right.
Skipper had been right to tell him to go into the locker room. If only he hadn’t added that he’d let Doc Brady know Rhys would be in to speak to him soon. How was he supposed to cool down now?
His fingers tightened around his mask, but he forced himself to relax them. He’d been punished plenty of times for his temper tantrums growing up. He was twenty-six now, not six. He could control himself. He wasn’t at risk of being moved to yet another foster home.
He’d just lose everything he’d come to value. The team, his friends, actually having some damn worth for something.
Maybe that barista had taken one look at him and seen how worthless he was. He couldn’t blame them for that. Alfie had apparently come to the same conclusion. He’d just stayed where he was and watched Rhys come apart.
It was always going to come to this. It always did.
Rhys set the mask down on the bench. The last thing he needed was to damage equipment. Which certainly wouldn’t get him back out on the field. He took a deep breath then stripped out of the rest of the catcher gear. He yanked on jeans and a fresh t-shirt before storing his gear in the locker.
Part of him was tempted to walk out of the clubhouse before anyone else came in here. If he didn’t meet with Brady, he’d report that to the skipper, and Rhys would be in even more trouble.
It was fine. He would be fine. He just had to convince Brady he had his shit together. How hard could that really be?
His hands were still sweating as he knocked on Brady’s door and stepped through into the office. He resisted the urge to wipe them on his jeans. He knew better than to show weakness to a shrink. They were like a shark scenting blood in the water.
There were two overstuffed armchairs in front of the desk. A file cabinet in one corner with some pictures and knick knacks on top of it. A diploma framed on the wall. Rhys looked quickly away from it and over to the team’s mental skills coach.
Brady’s smile didn’t fool Rhys. He’d talked to his first therapist when he was five years old.
They acted like they were on your side at the beginning.
Until you actually did trust when they said you were safe with them.
Then, they reported you as being troubled, prone to telling stories, and uncooperative.
Foster parents and social workers used all of that to distrust what you said.
He pasted his own smile on as he dropped down into the chair, it was comfortable, maybe a little too comfortable, as if that would help pull Rhys’s secrets out. Nope, so not happening.
Rhys raised his foot to rest on the edge of Brady’s desk. At the shrink’s arched eyebrow, he simply bent his knee and rested his ankle on his thigh. As if that was what he meant to do the whole time.
Brady’s mouth tipped up on one side, but he stayed reclined in his chair, just studying him. Rhys fought the urge to squirm, feeling like a bug under a microscope. What exactly was Brady trying to see?
Whatever it was, Rhys was sure he didn’t want to show it.
Brady didn’t say anything. Rhys could play this game as well as any other.
He clasped his hands over his stomach and stared back at Brady.
“Seriously, Doc,” he said as the silence stretched out.
“If you wanted to look at me, you could have done that out on the field. Two things I’m good at, baseball and showing off. ”
Brady barked out a laugh. “No one doubts any of that. Your mind hasn’t been on the game, though. That’s been obvious in your performance. You want to talk about what has been going on?”
“Nothing,” he said, a little too vehemently, by the way Brady’s eyes widened.
Damn it, no, he did not want to talk about it.
He hadn’t wanted to talk about his minor meltdown over Mother’s Day, and he certainly didn’t want to talk about this.
If the doc and the skipper couldn’t put together the pattern, he certainly wouldn’t lay it out for them.
He always lost a grip on everything when a trip to Ohio was upcoming.
It was fine when the Hawks or Infernoes came here to play, but when they had to go to the neighboring state, Rhys could not seem to manage to keep the life he’d made for himself together.
It was too close. To where his mother had left him, where everyone determined how much worth he didn’t have, to where he’d lost the one person who believed in him. He could never hold it all together.
He certainly wasn’t telling Brady that. Not if he didn’t want to be benched for at least the next two weeks.
“Just a little slump,” he said. “Nothing some extra practice won’t cure.”
“Is that what happened in May, too?”
Damn it. So he had put the pattern together. Or at least some pieces of it. “My behavior was uncalled for, and I’ve apologized for it. It was not a good time for me, and I regret the way I lashed out.”
“Rhys.” Brady leaned forward, his gaze never wavering from Rhys’s face. “No one else saw what you did as lashing out. And I’m not a reporter. I’m not going to release what you tell me to the public. I don’t need the canned response.”
“Just to the skip and the front office, then.” He had not meant to let that slip out.
Brady’s face lost some of its color. “Not unless I come to the conclusion that you or someone else is in danger. Whatever you say to me is confidential.”
He’d heard that before. He didn’t believe it any more now than he ever had. Not when he’d had therapists turn and tell social workers, or worse his foster parents, exactly what he’d said.
“Sure.” He leaned back in the chair again. “What do you need me to tell you so I can get back on the field?”
Brady settled back into his own chair. “The truth. We can’t help you if you aren’t honest with what’s going on with you. We all want to help you, Rhys. Without a steady catcher, the rest of the team will flounder.”
Rhys rubbed at his chest. Baseball was the one place he’d always felt like he wouldn’t let everyone down. That’s exactly what he was doing. It couldn’t continue. “I’m fine. I just need to get back out there. Try a little harder. Nothing’s wrong with me, though.”
He would damn well prove that.