When was the last time someone had been this happy to see me?
I spent the next hour cleaning kennels, refilling water bowls, and taking dogs out to the small yard behind the clinic. Mindless work, but in a good way. No one asking for statements. Noreporters shoving cameras in my face. No teammates wondering if I was going to snap and take someone's head off.
Just dogs who didn't care that I'd fucked up my entire life.
A couple of hours later, Palisade’s voice made me look up from where I was hosing down the concrete. "Easton, you did good work today."
I straightened, surprised. "Yeah?"
"The kennels are clean, the dogs are fed and walked. Monique said you didn't complain once." She studied me with those dark eyes that reminded me of that night seven years ago. It was the only time I'd felt like someone saw past the jersey, past the stats, past everything I was supposed to be.
"What, you thought I'd throw a tantrum and storm out?"
"The thought crossed my mind." A hint of a smile touched her lips, then faded. "Look, I know this isn't where you want to be. But for what it's worth… I think you're going to be fine here."
She left before I could respond.
Rocky had followed me outside and now sat at my feet, looking up at me with complete adoration despite the fact that I'd literally just met him an hour ago.
"One day at a time, right?" I said to the dog.
Rocky barked once, tail wagging.
Yeah. One day at a time.
Maybe that's all any of us could do.
CHAPTER FOUR
Easton
Dr. Reyes' office wasn't what I expected. No couch. No abstract art. No clipboard with notes about my issues. Two comfortable chairs angled toward each other and a window overlooking the practice facility parking lot.
"Coffee?" Dr. Reyes offered, gesturing to a small pot on the side table. "Fair warning, it's terrible. But it's caffeine."
I shook my head, already tense.
He settled into his chair with his own mug, casual despite the circumstances. "So. The reporter. Walk me through what happened."
I crossed my arms, the defensive posture automatic. "You've seen the video."
"I have. But videos don't show what's happening in here." He tapped his temple. "What were you feeling right before you grabbed him?"
The reporter's face flashed in my mind. Smug, self-satisfied, deliberately needling me. My jaw locked. "He was baiting me. Asking if I was washed up, if it was time to retire. Then he brought up my father."
"And?"
"And I lost it." The words tasted bitter. "Grabbed him by the throat, backed him against the wall. If Coach Martin hadn't been there…" I trailed off, not wanting to think about how far I might have gone.
Dr. Reyes nodded, making a note on a small pad. "This wasn't your first incident this season. The equipment manager, the assistant coach. Tell me about the last time you lost your temper."
I shifted in the chair. "Last week. Practice. One of the younger guys wasn't taking drills seriously, and I got in his face. Yelled. Beck had to pull me off."
"What were you feeling at that moment?"
Rage. Pure, white-hot rage. The kind that made my vision tunnel and my fists clench.
The kind my father had perfected.
