The Girlfriend Game by Sierra Hill
Two
Kendall
“Hello, Mr. Forester. Please, take a seat wherever you’re most comfortable.”
I exchange a cordial handshake with my new client, Zeke Forester, ignoring the zing that sizzles through my palm upon contact with his rough bear-sized hand. A flash of irritation sparks in his eyes, but is overshadowed by his handsome broodiness.
Zeke is obviously tall, considering his profession, but appears to possess a defiant, and maybe even dangerous, presence that only serves to intrigue me more. It gives me a quiver of excitement when I’m faced with a challenging client. And from what I’ve read of Zeke Forester, he’s caused his fair share of trouble.
Shaking my thoughts free, I gesture toward a pair of chairs reserved for my clients.
I carefully observe as he eyes the two styles of seats and chooses the one that reclines.
He sinks into the chair, crossing one of his feet over his ankle, as if he’s casually waiting on me to hand him a beer or a drink. I take the leather chair opposite of him and cross my legs.
“You can call me Zeke. What should I call you? Your book out there”—he hooks a thumb toward the lobby door—“claims you have a lot of fancy titles and degrees.”
I chuckle at his comment. “I do, but in here you can call me Kendall. I think you’ll come to find out I’m not too caught up in titles, but they are important in this line of work.”
A true and accurate statement. I’ve fought tooth and nail to build my practice and establish my credibility as a psychotherapist, spending years in academia, then in the field, to prove my expertise. In fact, my Rush Method is a bit unorthodox in its approach to mental wellness, but has proven to be an invaluable methodology that has helped many of my patients heal.
Nearly all my clients are high-profile people which means, quite frankly, their arrogance often disguises their deep-rooted psychological problems. The pressure of success in whatever their profession manifests itself in stress, disorders, and anxiety. Many resort to the use of drugs, alcohol, sex addiction, and various other unhealthy coping mechanisms that I, as their therapist, must work to deconstruct one layer at a time. Nothing fazes or shocks me anymore.
Whatever their symptoms or behavior, I treat them using proven methods outside these office walls.
It’s the same approach for everyone. No one is unique or so important that my method won’t work.
I employ community outreach and the act of service as the means of getting people to talk. It’s amazing what can happen when a patient gets outside their head, so to speak, and they focus their mental energies on something or someone else. It quiets their minds, allows a sense of stability, and offers a heightened level of sensitivity toward other people’s plights that they may not have been aware of before.
That’s not to say I don’t use traditional methods for treatment, which I do. Medications are often needed due to the chemical imbalances. But combined with my approach to improving mental health, success has always been a derivative.
Zeke remains quiet for a moment, taking in the décor of the office. It’s not too much to look at. Muted tones and soft lighting, a few pieces of artwork on the walls. The small desk in the center of the room, free from any unnecessary paperwork or clutter. A laptop and monitor and nothing personal that would give my patients a glimpse into my life.
I don’t share any personal details of my life with my clients. My job is to get them to open up, to dig deep inside a patient’s head, thereby creating a certain level of intimacy they often don’t share with others. But I never refer to myself, my life, or my own personal opinions.
It keeps the professional lines clearly drawn.
Leaning forward, I fold my hands on my lap, the pencil skirt covering my knees to provide some modesty, and ask my first question.
“What would you like to talk about, Zeke? Tell me why you’re here.”
He laughs caustically, his lip curling in a snarl meant to intimidate, if I had to guess.
“I’m here because I’m being forced to be here. And I don’t want to talk about shit.”
Aha. So, it’s one of those games he’s playing. Lucky for him, I’ve dealt with confrontational patients before. Those who want to blame others for their issues or feel like they don’t have a choice in the matter, when they really do.
“Okay, then. I can appreciate that, Zeke. How about this? Why don’t we start our session with you telling me what you love about the game of basketball?”
I start a first session like this with all my clients. It allows me to immediately get into their headspace to understand what drives them, what their motivating factors are in life, and how their behaviors are tied to their mental health. I use it to form a tactical plan to diagnose and determine a strategy to get them on the path to recovery and healing.
Mental illness is not a weakness. It happens to even the strongest, the most intelligent, the bravest, and the most “I thought they had their shit together” kind of people. What I want to impart to Zeke from the get-go is that this is a process. It’s not an overnight cure-all.
For most who suffer, it’s not one critical incident that affected their mental health, but a combination of circumstances over a lifetime. It’s a long-brewing storm that must be weathered by seeking shelter and holding on during the darkest parts of the tempest.
“Hmm…what do I love about basketball? That’s easy. The money,” he jokes sarcastically, placing his hands behind his head and lounging back. And then he bounces back up, snapping his fingers as if he’s forgotten something important. “No, wait. It’s the fame. Nah, not that either. The women and the sex. Yes, that’s it.”
He strokes the dark stubble on his chin, digging a finger into the divot on his chin before releasing a brilliant, cheesy smile.
Very cute.
Looks like I’ve got my hands full with this one. But I don’t share the same level of amusement at his response. Once again, it gives me a very clear picture of who my patient is and what I’m up against by the way he responds to this question.
In this case, it’s obvious to me that he hides his pain and anxiety under a shield of sarcasm. That’s okay. I can work with that.
I flick my eyes to his, arching a brow inquisitively. “Is that right? So, over all the years you’ve played professionally, earning MVP titles and All-Star nominations, and maybe even the Championship, what brings you the most joy from the game is what women have to offer? There are no other intrinsic, motivating factors aside from sex?”
I jot a few lines in my notepad before lifting my gaze back to his. His expression has turned from humorous to dark and edgy, a petulant child who has been called out and scolded.
Zeke glares at me tight lipped, daring me to say more. Which I’m prepared to do.
I lay the pencil down on the notepad. “I can’t imagine it’s an easy sport to play without having an internal drive to win. All that sacrifice to be the best of the best.” I shrug a shoulder to indicate my curiosity. “I guess I can see the appeal. The thrill you get from all that notoriety and fame, and the respect from fans, the attention from women, can make you feel powerful and virile.”
Zeke seems to stew over this, looking uncomfortable now in the hot seat. He shrugs.
I lean forward again and prop my chin in hand, tapping my finger against my lips. “Perhaps it’s true then about the price of fame. It can eat you up and swallow you whole if you let it. Fame and glory are fickle and will fade. One wrong move or play and it’s gone.” I snap my fingers. “And that’s a lot of pressure to handle. It’s a lot to deal with.”
Zeke screws up his forehead and tsks. “Heavy philosophy you’re pushing, Kendall. But I don’t share your views.”
“Oh? Then do you care to share your opinion on why you’re here? If the fame and fans were sustaining you and giving you what you needed, then how did you end up on the floor during a game, suffering from a panic attack?”
He chuffs and unfolds his legs. “Alleged panic attack.”
I raise an eyebrow censoriously. The notes in his file were classic symptoms of a panic attack, but I’ll let it go for now.
“I’ll ask again. If all the external rewards you’ve amassed give you what you need, then why are you here? Seems to me you have a choice and don’t need me or my help.”
I’ve backed him into a corner, and I’ve done it on purpose. It’s the only way to get someone like Zeke to admit they need help.
Planting both feet on the floor and placing his hands on the armrest of the chair, Zeke unfolds his legs and pushes himself to a standing position. I crane my neck and gaze skyward at his very tall and looming frame. I’m sure he makes a formidable opponent out on the court.
But in here, with me, he’s not my opponent, whether he believes that or not. My job is to help him unlock the mystery to get to the root of his issues, and then give him the tools to get back on track to lead a healthy life going forward.
“I agree with you there, Kendall. I guess that means I’ll be on my way then.”
He turns and in two long strides is at my office door. As he places his hand around the handle, I stop him with what I know he needs to hear.
“Zeke, seeking help through therapy doesn’t make you weak. In fact, it’s obvious that you are a strong and capable man. Even the greatest of athletes and the best of the best are only human. You are not a machine of will and strength and your mental health is not something you can just endure. By ignoring the warning signs, you’re doing yourself a great disservice and possibly even self-harm in the long term.”
With his back to me, his shoulders appear to be tight boulders, holding up the weight of the world as his body shakes with resistance. I know I can help remove some of that burden, but it’s up to him to accept my assistance.
“Zeke, your team depends on you to do this. If not for yourself, do it for your team. The ball is in your court.”
He hesitates for a moment and then drops his forehead against the door in silent contemplation. Without turning around, he simply says, “Goodbye, Kendall.”
And then he walks out.
And a small tear rips open inside my chest. It’s not a wound of defeat, but a sliver of hope that Zeke Forester will be back again.
On his own time and his own terms.