Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

He utters his remark lightly, but it still sounds somewhat bitter. I’m reminded that Wyatt didn’t have a good relationship with his father.

I’m curious to learn more of what went down in the Harrison house when we were younger. When my brother and Wyatt hung out, it was mostly Wyatt who came over to us, so even Devon couldn’t give me insights as to why Wyatt got cranky every time Mason, his father, was mentioned.

When Wyatt and I were dating, I’d tried to learn more about their relationship, but Wyatt had never been forthcoming, and I’d written it off as a normal reaction, given that his father left his mother the year I started university.

I lift my finger. “This doesn’t mean we won’t speak about the past though. Unexplained anger often originates from suppressed frustrations and regrets.”

“Mhm, I have some of those, as you know,” Wyatt says, giving me a loaded glance.

Afraid that he might forget my rule, I quickly add, “You need to remember that this therapy is about you, and you, only. I’m just a tool to enable you to resolve your soul’s knots. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” Wyatt nods, but his jaw sets into a tight line.

“Good.” I return his nod and quickly explain the type of exercises—ad-hoc associations, role playing, flashcards, free flow questioning and short hypnotic sessions—that we may employ to get to the root of his issues.

“Role playing, huh?” He eyes me with an amused glance. “That one sounds interesting.”

“Most clients find it so,” I answer in an even tone, trying to control the warmth that spreads toward my cheeks.

What’s wrong with me?

There’s no reason to become like a gushy teenager. I’m a therapist, and the words I used were the proper technical terms to describe the activities I’ll be using with Wyatt.

Needing to establish my authority, I lean forward and meet Wyatt’s gaze. “Now that you’ve heard my introduction, I’d like to return to that punch you gave your teammate. I need to understand what prompted you to jab that man. You’re not a hitter. Did something unusual happen before the game?”

His lips curl up as if I gave him a major compliment. “It’s good to know you don’t think I’m an unreasonable beast. Many who know me only from the gridiron assume that the way I play football is how I behave in real life. But you never saw the athlete side of me.”

I ignore his last phrase. “No, you’re not a beast. But you still didn’t answer my question. Did something prompt you to be on edge that day?”

“No.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary?” I insist.

He shrugs. “It was just like any other last OTA day, I guess.”

“Nothing before the practice game? In the locker room, perhaps?”

“Nope. The place was a mob of jiggling, shaking, cursing, and growling guys, as always. I chatted with a buddy right until kickoff.”

“Any of your teammates act out?”

He drifts his eyes to the ceiling as if he’s trying to recall what everyone was doing. “Well, Greg, a linebacker, vomited into a pail. He pushed himself too much on our strength session. Troy, our safety, hopped like a crazed guard dog screaming ‘We’ll smash you’ at Leo, our fullback, who ended up on the opposing team. Ah yeah, and Jamal, my replacement, banged his forehead on the wall in a two-one-two sequence.”

He blinks back at me, catches my alarmed glance, and grins. “That’s kind of Jamal’s thing. Players have different ways of dealing with the sickening crescendo of anxiety over impending games. The only thing we all have in common is that we all feel the pressure to perform well.”

I give him a grimace that I hope expresses ‘you’re all strange folks’ then I say, “I thought a practice game would be more relaxed.”

He shakes his head. “Not with the Kites. Our head coach believes that if you aren’t nervous before going out to the field, even if only to face your own teammates, then you don’t care about winning. And if you don’t care about winning, you shouldn’t even be on his team. So he demands that we treat each play as the chance to show what we’re made of. To ensure that we do this, he uses every recording and not just those from the summer camp to determine who lands a position in the opening during next season.”

I frown. “Fine, so all was normal.”

“Is that bad?” he asks.

“Not necessarily. But I expected a proper trigger. Something that would have primed your brain to launch into an unfamiliar cognitive and behavioral sequence…”

“Come again…and this time in plain English, please.” He winks at me.

“I’m speaking about a detail that somehow changed your normal reactive patterns. Perhaps during the game itself or during one of the breaks. It could’ve been small.”

A quiver runs through his jaw. His knees waver as if he pushed his feet harder to the pavement.

“Did you remember something?” I prompt him.

“Nope,” he says in a flat voice.

I sense there’s something he’s either not saying or not realizing, but I decide not to push him. We’ll have time to dig deeper later. “Okay, so this is a blind alley for now. Let’s move on to your stakes. You said your head coach threatened to exclude you from the season. How did that make you feel?”

Another muscle on his face twitches, this time below his left eye. “Not pleasant.”

I give him an encouraging wave. “Care to elaborate on this? Why would it be so bad if you had to skip a few games?”

Wyatt exhales. “Let me give you a quick brush up on your football knowledge, Ellie. An average NFL quarterback averages twelve-something seasons—if lucky. Last one was my tenth. If I don’t play this season, I’m not just skipping a few games. I’m signing my death warrant in the team.”

A somber, almost tired expression settles on his face.

His distress squeezes my heart despite knowing that I’m his therapist and, as such, supposed to keep emotional