Page 39 of Chasing Headlines
“It’s every other day, now. But has started including an update on how poorly the farm is doing. I don’t know what he wants from me.”
“Have you asked him?” She stood from her seat.
“In the midst of him crying over my mother?” My tone was as dry as the West Texas desert we were in. “No.”
She moved her chair around to the front of her desk and sat down, again. “What about you? Have you . . . allowed yourself to cry?”
And there it was, what she really wanted to know. Fuck, this was tedious. I took in a deep breath and held it for a few, long heartbeats. “Sure. Then, I got over it.” The lie punched me in the gut—twisting my stomach like it was about to pull the damned thing out of my body. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth against the pain.
“You’re not expected to justget overyour mother's death. Not on some kind of timeline or in a particular way.” She held her folded hands out, toward me. “But the last time we spoke you hadn’t?—”
“Hadn’t what?”
She drew herself up and adjusted her glasses. “Cried.”
“What doyouwant from me? How about we start there? What is it you need to see so we can do less of this?” I waved at the walls, the door. “These fun-filled visits.”
“I have the option to change the frequency of our sessions based on my assessment of your support needs. I'm concerned about your stress score especially in light of your coach’s report. So maybe we should consider a bump to weekly sessions.” One eyebrow lifted.
I stifled the remark I wanted to snarl at her.
“I was hoping you’d bring up any issues you’ve been having on your own.” She pulled the folder from her desk into her lap.
“What issues?”
She looked at me over the top of her lenses. “How about you tell me about the first day of baseball camp?”
My brain went straight to the water fountain. And Rally Girl’s see-through shirt. The swell of her breasts and the tight buds poking through the fabric begging to be . . . handled.
Her eyelids lifted. Blue-green eyes sparked, and all I could think of was sucking water from the valley of her breasts.
“Thought we were supposed to shower in the dorms.”
She pressed her lips into a lopsided smirk.
“Mr. Cooper?”
How many times had I reimagined that scene, taking off her shirt for her? Pressing her up against the wall and?—
“Mr. Cooper.” Dr. Hamer's clipped tone brought me back to the present.
I huffed. “Yeah. What?”
“We need to talk about your outburst with that reporter.”
I leaned my head back against the couch cushions and groaned at the ceiling. “I didn’t say anything to her.”
“Maybe not, but the trainer had to bandage bruised knuckles on your right hand. And you sat out part of a practice?—”
“The bruises weren’t just from that. I’d injured them a couple of times,” I said with my eyes closed. I wanted to go back to thinking about Rally Girl—before she turned into that damned reporter.
“Really. Doing what?”
Beating the shit out of my dashboard in a fit of rage. Oh wait, where am I again? Anger management therapy. “There shouldn’t have been a reporter there. It’s?—”
“While I think anyone can understand you possessing a certain reticence. She’s aschoolreporter. One of your classmates. It could have been an excellent chance to repair?—”
“She shouldn’t. Have been there.” I gritted out.