“I’m sorry, Shay. Unfortunately, it’s the truth.” She gives me a second to adjust, but all I can form on the tip of my tongue are two words I certainly shouldn’t tell her right now, which start inscrewand end inyou. “What notes did you write today?”
My lips part at her question because it feels like she doesn’t trust me to write my positive notes like I have been.
I mean … you did write some definitely not positive ones this morning.
Shut up, me!
“I wroteI’m doing great, controlling the things I can control,” I tell her, not feeling that sentiment an ounce in my bones.
Amusement tips the corners of her mouth. “At least you’re writing them. Eventually, your brain will believe you.”
“So, basically, I just have to gaslight myself into being happy?” I laugh humorlessly. But the giggle that follows when I see her face is genuine. “What?”
I think my job as a client is to push her too, right? Or maybe I’m the worst client ever. All I know is that since we’ve been on the phone, the tightness in my chest has dissipated.
“Firstly”—she holds back her big smile, but I can see it in her eyes—“we are rewiring our thoughts and minds. Secondly, we’re not calling it gaslighting.”
“Fiiiine.” I concede.
As much as I might seem to hate my nonstop appointments, I genuinely don’t think I would be here today if it wasn’t for Lorea. She saved my life—maybe not in a dramatic fashion, butby helping me find the light again after being stuck in such a dark place.
“Talk to me. What’s new since our last chat?” she asks.
I lean back, settling into my chair to tell her how anticlimactic it’s been around here.
But she listens as if I were explaining how I flew to the moon, hanging on to every word like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard.
CHAPTER 2
MATT
Nighttime in New York City after a Nighthawks win that secured our place in the playoffs? Talk aboutperfection.
This is the city that never sleeps, and tonight, it’s the city that chants our name. Playoffs haven’t even begun, but we’re starving for the Stanley Cup, and this year is going to be our year to raise it. We can feel it, and so can the fans.
The Penalty Box bar has a line from the front door to around the block, not unusual as of late. It used to be a lot quieter, but as word spread more and more about our team’s tradition of coming here after victorious home games, the place is constantly packed.
Darius, one of the bouncers, nods at me as I approach the entrance, ignoring the line of customers to my left. But I can still feel their eyes on me as I pass.
“Go, Nighthawks!” some guy yells over.
With my hands in my jean jacket pockets, I turn to find the guy pumping his fists in the air.
“Woo-hoo!” He points at me with the biggest smile on his face.
I wave at him with my right hand, smiling back. “Thanks, man.”
“How’s it going, Darius?” I bump his knuckles when I reach him.
He smirks. “Good, man. You?”
Grabbing the door handle, I nod in agreement. “Same here.”
We’re winning right now, for the most part at least, and that means I’m doing great.
“Glad to hear it. Have a good night,” Darius tells me.
“You too,” I tell him as I pull the door open and disappear into the noisy chaos inside.
