Page 195 of Hard Pass

“Please.” I push to my feet and pace across the office. I need to shake this off. She’s subtly and slowly been trying to sell me this narrative—that everything stems back to my dad. I’m not fucking stupid. I know that’s what she’s been hinting at and moving toward each session, but maybe I just don’t want to fucking talk about it. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“Then why did your body react like that?”

“Coincidence.” I turn and look at her. “You don’t know anything about him so don’t make assumptions.”

“You’re right,” she says evenly. “I don’t know anything about him, but I do know what your sympathetic nervous system just told me.”

My heart races, making it hard to catch my breath. I fist my hands to hide a tremor in case it decides to make another unwanted appearance. “Just say whatever’s on your mind, Doc, and stop looking at me like you feel sorry for me.”

“Compassion and feeling sorry for someone are two different things, Cole.” She motions for me to take a seat, but I remain standing. “From what you have and haven’t said, you’ve been conditioned and trained to associate performance with worth.” She pauses. “And failure with punishment.”

I chuckle. “That’s not a . . . stretch. Welcome to professional sports.”

“That’s not what this is,” she says quietly.

It’s not. I know it, but does she know how goddamn hard it is to acknowledge that? To say I’m fucked up because of all the shit I allowed my dad to do and say to me?

I drop back in the chair and stare at the floor. “Then what is it?” I mutter.

Do I really want to know the answer? What the fuck will it actually help?

Why are we talking about my dad when I came here, pissed and shaken to the core about Tristan’s betrayal?

How does one even fucking come close to connecting to the other?

“I came here to talk about . . . for you to help me deal with my friend betraying me. Why are you talking about my dad?”

She motions to my hand. “Because you showed me it’s all connected somehow.”

“You’ve lost me, Doc.” I have a denial on my lips, but I stop myself. How many times am I going to insult her intelligence? Fight her enough that she eventually assumes I don’t want the help I keep claiming I’m here for?

How about shutting up and trying to learn something, Valor?

“So . . .” I blow out a frustrated sigh and roll my shoulders. “There’s a connection? What does my hand shaking have to do with any of this?” I swallow, hating that I’m suddenly nervous. “In your opinion, I mean.”

Not missing a beat, she says, “The tremor is learned survival response.” She waits for me to meet her assessing gaze before continuing. “Your body isn’t just reacting to pressure, it’s reacting to a threat.”

“But there’s no threat.”

“There was,” she says gently. “At some point.”

I don’t answer because . . . yeah, memories flash through my mind like snapshots on a highlight reel I’d much rather forget.

His fist cocked back, threatening but never landing, because my completion rate was too low and I dared to talk back.

You want dinner, Cole-y boy? A place to sleep at night? Best figure out how to win the next few games to get to the championships. I was twelve.

Everything you do and have is because of me. And it can be taken away just like that. So get back on the damn field and practice until you hit the target twenty times in a row.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” she adds. “But until you deal with the source, your body will keep doing this every time it’s exposed to extreme pressure or stress or a triggering event.”

I flex my hand again. It’s steadier now and way more controlled than I feel.

“Great,” I say. “So what’s the fix? Breathing exercises? Visualization bullshit? Praying to the football gods?”

“Those help.” Her smile is soft as I roll my eyes. “Well, all but that last one, but they won’t solve this.”

Of course they won’t.