The Girlfriend Game by Sierra Hill

One

Zeke

I impatiently flip through the pages of a worn-out coffee table magazine. It’s a Men’s Health issue from two months ago, featuring a cover photo of my former teammate, Brady Collins, promoting his new protein powder and supplement line, as well as his new lease on life post-basketball career.

I scoff irritably, sneering at the man smiling back at me like his shit don’t stink. I toss the wrinkled copy back on the stack. That douchey son-of-a-bitch was once the biggest cheater and dirty player in the league. It wasn’t until he got caught using steroids and drugs, and his wife kicked his cheating ass out of their house, that he finally checked into rehab and sought help.

Now he’s the poster boy for clean and sober living, hawking his line of healthy supplements.

Well, excuse me for not giving a shit.

But it seems I’ve now taken his spot on the NBA’s latest fuck-up roster.

I lean back in the lobby chair to rest my head, staring forward at the wall covered in artwork. My lids grow heavy and close on their own accord, the warmth of the office lulling me to sleep. After the bender I went on this past week, I’m due for a nice long nap. My body doesn’t quite recover like it once did back in my twenties.

Now it feels like I’m covered in cement and I’m trudging through the muck.

In fact, if anyone asked me what I did this past weekend, I’d have to make up a story because it’s all a blank after the game we played at home against Houston. Surprisingly, I scored a triple double even with the killer hangover.

For me, it’s the only thing keeping me going most days and fuels my will to live. Outside of basketball, my life is meaningless, and I’m doing a great job of wasting it.

Like this weekend, when I’d gone out clubbing with some of the guys from the team. I’d had a pretty bad episode before the game—sweating profusely, trouble breathing, the shakes—all the things the psychiatrist indicated were symptoms of an anxiety attack. But instead of taking those meds they prescribed which make me feel foggy, I decided to drown it after the game with booze and my own combination of recreational drugs.

At some point, I ended up blacking out again and when I came to, I couldn’t remember what happened. But the world knew what transpired because, when I woke up the next morning, my bender was splashed all over the headlines.

Bad Boy NBA Player, Zeke Forester, Arrested

I was arrested for public intoxication after getting in a fight with a guy at the club who, according to my teammates, had gotten in my face and taunted me to the point where I lost control and knocked him to the ground with a left hook. Under normal circumstances, when I’m not drunk, I can handle those situations. But this time, fueled by post-game adrenaline, my irritable mood, and the substances in my system, I went off the rails.

I rub at my temple to ward off the headache that’s been brewing all day, regardless of the painkillers and copious amounts of coffee I drank earlier. And the whiskey chasers I had on top of that.

The incessant ache never goes away no matter what I do to get rid of it.

I’ve pushed my body to my physical limits, exceeded what one man can endure physically, but nothing has helped to ease the constant suffocating weight crushing me day in and day out. And the quack-nonsense those doctors tried to shove down my throat about it being a mental health problem was quickly ignored. I wasn’t crazy or looney. I could handle this on my own without their damn meds and psychological bullshit.

Unfortunately, while I did a good job ignoring my problems, Marek Talbert, the Pilots’ GM, was done with me. He’d called me into his office that day after my arrest and subsequent release on my own recognizance and gave me the third degree. He’d had enough and sat me down to deliver an ultimatum. He saw through my antics. He said he wasn’t going to stand by and watch me destroy my career and myself in the process.

“I can’t turn a blind eye and watch you continue to slowly kill yourself, Zeke.”

Honestly, I’d been expecting to be fired and thrown out on the streets. But instead, Marek gave me one last chance.

“You’re too good and have come too far to crumble under the weight of your personal demons like this.”

I snickered at the word demons because he was being overdramatic. And I told him so.

“I’m fine, Marek. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re overreacting. It was just a small incident.” I waved my hand in the air like it was nothing.

He crossed his arms, face composed, but I got a glimmer of a sad look in his eyes. Like a disappointed parent.

“I guess I’m wrong, then. I thought you’d hit your rock bottom. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to wait for that to happen and I’m giving you a choice. Here’s what’s going to happen.”

I’ve got to hand it to the guy. I was fucking pissed as hell and threw a hurricane-sized tantrum over the stipulations he decreed. He calmly laid out the plan. If I didn’t seek treatment, I was done. There’d be no more basketball. No more games. No more playoffs. Nothing left for me to do.

He hit me where he knew it would hurt.

Basketball is my life. It’s the only thing I’m good at. The only reason I’m still here.

I don’t blame Marek for giving me that ultimatum. I know he cares deeply for his team and players. They always come first for him, even before the money, the game, or the fans. Marek is nothing like our previous GM, who would’ve turned a blind eye to my behavior as long as I was putting up the boards and scoring on the court.

But Marek finally said enough was enough. He was done with my irritability, mood swings, late to practice habits, and my bullshit.

Marek laid down the law that day. If I wanted to stay on the team, I had to begin therapy with Dr. Kendall Rush, a recommended sports psychologist who was endorsed by the team. He said Dr. Rush was the best in the business and would help me deal effectively with my mental health.

A shrink. Really?

I didn’t want to play stupid shrinky-dink games. The ones where the snooty-nosed, entitled doctors made you wait in their fancy lobbies, increasing your blood pressure and anxiety levels, all so they can label it an anxiety condition. Then they prescribe you drugs that won’t make you better so they can get their financial kickbacks from the pharmaceutical companies.

Drugs for depression.

Pills for social anxiety.

For stress.

For sleep.

It’s a never-ending list of prescriptions. I don’t want to live every day like a zombie, numb to pleasure, with no sex drive or ambition, feeling like a failure because I can’t cope with life. A life that’s blessed and richly undeserved.

I had no leverage and no wiggle room to negotiate with Marek. Even Marvin Spurlock, the team’s owner, agreed with Marek. There was nothing I could do to get out of it.

Seeing Dr. Kendall Rush is part of the agreement I conceded to after Marek and Marvin’s intervention and the only way I can remain on the team.

The only reason I don’t say fuck it and walk away is that I love this game too much. It’s all I’ve ever known. What would be left for me? I’m thirty-three and have played professionally for ten years. That’s a lifetime. And this game isn’t kind to veterans, not when there’s an ocean full of nineteen- and twenty-year-old kids out there who play college ball for a year and then draft to the pros.

No team in their right mind would pick up a guy like me over a young, eager player. Especially knowing I could suffer a mental breakdown at any moment. What team wants this mess on their hands?

So here I am, waiting to attend my first of fifteen sessions with a psychotherapist, Dr. Rush, who will assess my mental stability and fortitude and report back to Marek whether I’m redeemable.

The team is probably just using this as a formality for liability purposes, a way for them to wipe their hands free of me and end my contract if I don’t comply. Whatever. I’ll do it and get it over with and prove to them I’m not crazy and I’m not a major headcase.

Had it not been for my buddy Carver, I would be far less eager to be here. But when I mentioned Marek’s requirement of me, Carver shared that he, too, has attended “checkups” with Dr. Rush to help him deal with some things from his past. He swears that therapy has made him a better player, husband, and father.

Picking up my phone, I check the time and grit my teeth.

What is it with these fucking arrogant, privileged doctors? Who the hell do they think they are to keep people waiting for so goddamn long?

I sigh, eying a hard-covered book sitting on the coffee table. I lean over and pick up the copy.

The Rush Methodby Dr. Kendall Rush.

I flip it over in my hands and blink a few times.

Well, fuck me. What do you know?

Dr. Rush is a woman.

A fucking hot one, too. Wavy copper-red hair that hangs past her shoulders, a pair of red-rimmed glasses to match her lips, and a smile that gives off a sexy librarian vibe. My dick perks up as I imagine her unbuttoning that crisp white blouse of hers, licking her lips, and spreading her legs…

Like a needle scratching over a vinyl record, the sound of the receptionist’s voice calling out my name has my head popping up with a guilty smile.

“Mr. Forester, Dr. Rush will see you now.”

Well, I hope Dr. Rush is ready for me.

Let the shrink games begin.