Page 72 of Chasing Headlines
“And exhale. One, and two, and three.”
I closed my eyes, but it was all turmoil. No one thought or image would stay in my head. Not even that blank emptiness . . .
“Mr. Cooper?” Her voice pitched sharper.
“I can't do this today.” I stood and paced. Eyed the door.Could I leave?What would happen?Doesn't matter. It's not like I have a starting position. Or any position.
“What is it? What's bothering you? Did something happen?”
“Got in an argument with my dad. He kicked me out.”
“What kind of argument?” Her voice had returned to that measured tone I hated.
“What do you mean, what kind of argument?” My hands clenched and I rolled my eyes. “The kind where a father and son start with yelling at each other.” I returned to pacing. “And it ends with me driving back to school in the middle of the night with my backseat filled with crap I don't need.” I pointed at the door like the man was on the other side. “Because my dad told me not to come back.”
“Sounds like a difficult situation.”
Shut up. What the hell do you care?I pitched myself back onto the couch and scowled at her. “Saves me a ton of headache.”
She tilted her head like she was studying me. “How so?”
“I don't have to listen to his misery. His moping. His farm updates. His guilt trips. I'm free of all of it, now. He thought, he actually thought, that if he told me he'd have to sell the farm that I'd just quit baseball, and school, to help him fix it.” I gave a humorless laugh.
“There are people who would go home and help out their parents.”
“My brother’s the oldest, let him do the guilt trip thing. Oh wait, no one can even find him to tell him his mother is dead.” I leveled a glare at her. “Where's your magic handbook pages for that?”
“I don't know what that means. But you do feel guilty for not helping, your anger tells me that. It makes you feel powerful in the face of helplessness.”
“You're right. This is helpingso much.” I sneered. “What's next Doc? You got a cure for disappointment?”
“I can't solve your problems for you. But you already knew that. Your intelligence scores, despite a general lack of interest in your studies, are as impressive as your athletic ability.” Every syllable grated on my nerves to the point it pained me to sit there. Still. Listening to this . . . self-help blathering bullshit.
“Who's disappointed in you?”
I stared at the wall. “Who isn't?”
“Your coaches?”
“Told me to get my shit together. Direct quote.”
“Teammates?”
“Hate me. Most of them think I'm a king-sized asshole. And so we can go down the list, Dad is self-explanatory. Pretty sure even my mom . . .” I swallowed against the sore lump in my throat.
“And the young lady you?—”
Heat flared through my system. “Milline? Yes, let's bring upthe reporter, too. She's actually the queen of disappointment.”
The therapist folded her hands together and leaned forward on her desk. “Why is she at the top of the list?”
I stopped. “She's not. I don't care what she thinks. She's irritating, and everywhere, like this Texas sand. Chafing. And makes me so . . . so frustrated. Why can't she leave me alone?” But even as I said the words, my heart sank lower in my chest—like someone had tied an anchor to it and let go.
“. . . people don't make us feel a certain way. We choose how to react to them. In the case of this reporter, if she's a distraction, Icouldmake a recommendation to the coaches that she be removed. Based on your history, they may even consider it. But who else would have to go because they irritate you? Jimenez, Meyers, Knox, Dereks? You've complained about all of them. And the only common denominator in the equation is you.”
“Of course it's me. It's always me. The fate of the farm? Me. Winning a national championship? Me. My mom?—”
Her eyes lifted and met mine. And she had that look, like she'd solved some fucking puzzle cube.Fuck. “Don't say a word.”