“Tough day?” I ask as I open cabinets, trying to remember which one contains the half dozen wine glasses I own, again, purely for entertaining.
Not that I ever actually entertain. But maybe someday.
I find the glasses and pour her some wine. I look at her when she doesn’t answer and find her staring out the large windows that overlook the water.
“Dr. Mackey?” I ask as I walk over and hand her the wine.
She snaps out of her daze, then winces as she looks at me. Her hand goes to her neck to rub it, and I wonder if she just pulled something.
“Don’t call me that,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice. I raise a brow, and her face falls.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I…I was on a first date earlier in the evening, and it didn’t go well. But that’s not your fault, so I shouldn’t take my bad mood out on you.”
The words come out as a whoosh of breath, and she deflates in front of me as she takes a big gulp of her wine.
That same twinge I felt days ago is back at the mention of her date, but I ignore it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as she winces again.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “I’m here to help you, so let’s focus onthat. Just do me a favor and call me Gray.” She sips her wine again. “I normally insist my students call me Dr. Mackey for professional reasons, but you’re not really a student, and it feels odd to have you use my title while we’re sitting in your living room.”
I shrug one shoulder as I sit across from her on the loveseat as before. “Fair enough…Gray. So where do we start?”
“Let’s start with your homework,” she says. “What did you decide your ideal image is?”
I lean back and think a moment. I’ve been considering this for days, and I’m still not sure I have a complete picture.
“I guess my ideal image isn’t that much different than Karl Malone’s,” I say. “I imagine myself as the guy the team can depend on. The guy who can deliver a goal when we need it. But that’s gotta be the ideal image of most athletes, right?”
Gray shakes her head once but stops on another wince. “Not necessarily,” she says. “You see yourself in relationship to your team. Your ideal image is dependent on how they view you. Not all athletes are that way. Many – too many – want the glory. They’re happy to be in the spotlight while their teammates see them as the star. You want to be the guy ‘who can deliver a goal whenweneed it.’ Not just you. The team.”
I nod as I mull this over. The truth is, the ‘We’ guy in me has only come about in recent years. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I was very much that ‘I’ guy in my first few seasons in the NHL. The last couple years have been humbling, though, and my team approach has apparently changed because of it.
“So what does that mean for me?” I ask.
“I’m not sure yet,” she says. “What else can you tell me about your ideal image? If I were to ask your teammates what they thought of you as a player, what would you want them to say?”
“What I’dwantthem to say and what each one of themwouldsay are different things,” I argue. “I’d want them to say they respect me and know they can count on me to do my job. And maybe that’s what Kelsier wouldsay, but Kingston, our goalie, would probably say he wants me to be a scoring machine. The more goals I make, the more pressure it takes off him to keep the puck out of the net.”
Her brows pinch in thought. “You’re right,” she says. “Your teammates will have their own hopes for you based on their personal priorities and outlooks. So what should you take away from that?”
I just look at her. “Um…”
“If everyone wants something different from you…,” she prompts, and her point clicks into place.
“I can’t please everyone,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says. “It’s not wrong to want your teammates to be able to depend on you, but maybe you’re letting your desire to be what everyone needs overwhelm you. Maybe the trash talk is getting to you because you’re afraid of letting everyone down.”
I think for a moment. That’s a possibility.
“So what do I do about it?” I ask.
“About that part, I’m not sure yet,” she says. “In the meantime, I’ve been looking into anger management techniques we can work on.” She opens her laptop and boots it up before opening a document. One hand goes to her neck again as her other runs across the mousepad, and she grimaces as she rubs near her nape.
“Are you alright?” I ask. “You keep rubbing your neck.”
She starts to shake her head but stops. “I’m fine. I just slept wrong and strained something. That’s what started the whole day out like shit.”
