“What’s the name of the organization mandating it?” I ask.
He bends forward, staring me straight on, and that odd feeling I had in my gut now swishes around behind my breastbone.
Maybe I should have had breakfast.
“The New York Nighthawks.”
Ah, things are starting to click.
He’s a ballplayer.
“You’re a football player.”
“Ding, ding, ding!” he says facetiously. “Now you get it.”
Okay, now he’s just being an ass.
“Actually, I still don’t get it, Mr. Warner,” I say in a flat tone. While I understand it was unprofessional of me to be late, he doesn’t have to be this disrespectful, for fuck’s sake. “The National Football League has their own contracted physicians and mental health professionals that they use, and I’m not one of them,” I tell him.
Finally, there’s a way out of this train wreck of a session.
“If this was mandated, it wouldn’t be with me,” I continue. “Let me make a call and figure this out for you,” I say almost cheerfully, ready to pass this guy off to a different psychotherapist as soon as humanly possible so I can cancel the rest of my day and get back in bed.
I stand up to grab my cell phone out of my purse. I don’t understand how he ended up being referred to me, but I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with an annoyingly attractive, puffed up jock who clearly doesn’t have any respect for me.
“I killed someone,” he says with hurried words laced in pain.
Words that get my full attention.
“What do you mean?” I ask, taking my seat again.
“Murder.”
The word stops me in my tracks.
“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Warner. Have you retained legal counsel? Because you do not have the benefit of privilege in our sessions, especially if you’ve committed a crime. I’d be ethically bound to report it. So–”
“You don’t understand,” he says with exasperation. “I killed him, but he was revived by a doctor right in front of me.”
“So, this was an incident with another player?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s still alive?”
“Barely,” he croaks out.
“So…attempted murder?”
Mr. Warner looks at me like I’m the dumbest woman he’s ever met and as the blurry effects of my previous night’s drinking session dissipate, I realize my error.
“Ah, you mean something deadly happened during one of your games.”
He shifts his massive body uncomfortably on the couch, and I inadvertently hold my breath until he settles himself. I can’t explain it, but this man takes up too much space in the room, both physically and energetically. I wish he would remain still so I can somehow remain centered.
“How old are you?” he asks in a tone that I could only describe as one of disbelief, but it’s not the first time that a client has questioned my age.
I’ve been genetically blessed (or cursed) with the advantage of looking younger than I am, but psychotherapy might be one of the few careers where age is actually an advantage. A lot of clients prefer older therapists and believe that I haven’t lived enough life to help them in any sort of meaningful way.
