Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 134387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 672(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 672(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
And another and another until it started to feel good.
Until the burn in my lungs turned into this high-speed rush that spread all throughout my body, making my shoulders relax and the base of my neck tingle. Making me feel like I was on top of the world.
Making me feel like I could do anything. Ace a fucking biology test and win the game against our rival school.
As I said though, I know my limits. I know the conventional wisdom. One smoke and that’s it.
Besides I promised my mother that I wouldn’t smoke. I’m breaking that promise so I can’t have more than one anyway.
I’m an asshole for lying but I don’t have to be a complete bastard too.
The days I smoke, I train harder. To punish myself for going back on my word.
But I would do anything, any-fucking-thing, for a smoke right now.
Because Dr. Bernstein has finished settling down and she’s smiling at me. I look away from her and my eyes land on her coffee table.
The object of my fixation the last session.
It’s not the same one though.
“You replaced your coffee table,” I say, focusing on her.
Nodding happily, she leans forward and raps on the table. “Wood. Less of a chance that it could get broken. Accidentally.”
She raises her eyebrows at me and I have to admit, my lips twitch a little. “Were you worried that it could get broken accidentally?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
I give in and chuckle. “It’s a little early to say. But we’ll see, Dr. Bernstein.”
She chuckles as well. “You can call me Lola.”
“I think I’ll call you Dr. Bernstein,” I reply. “Sounds more professional.”
Still smiling, she nods. “Okay, let’s be professional. So.” She folds her hands on top of her notebook and I brace myself for her irrelevant questions. “Soccer.”
I narrow my eyes, starting to feel my skin tighten up. “What about it?”
“Since you don’t want to talk about your breakup, let’s talk about soccer. How did you get into that? I mean, I know your father played for the New York club. So you were always interested in the sport?”
This I can handle.
I can handle questions about soccer. Although I still don’t know what it has to do with my anger issues and how we’re going to fix that so I can go back and play. But at least we’re off the subject of the breakup.
“I was born into it,” I reply. “My first memory is watching my dad play on TV.”
“Were you ever interested in some other sport?”
“I played some basketball. Ran track. But it was always soccer. I’m my father’s son.”
I am.
My father – who was born and brought up in England – played soccer for the New York City FC, before he suddenly died in a plane crash. He met my mom when she was studying abroad and decided to follow her back to the States and get married.
If he hadn’t died though, we would probably be living somewhere in Europe. It was my dad’s dream to play for the European Soccer League.
I don’t remember my father much. I don’t remember how he was before he passed away. I’ve only seen pictures of him and he’s always looked like such a distinguished man, my dad.
A great soccer player with a dream.
And now it’s my dream.
To do what my dad wasn’t able to. That’s what I’ve been working toward all my life: to rise to the top and be traded to the European League. Real Madrid, if I have to be specific.
“So it must be painful, to sit out the season,” my therapist comments.
“Very,” I clip.
It’s more than painful, it’s fucking excruciating. To be sitting out when I should be on the field, playing.
Everything depended on me this season. I was their star player. I led them to victory last season and that was what was expected of me this season too.
But I went ahead and got suspended and now my entire team has to suffer because of me. Rodriguez is good but he’s not me. He doesn’t have my speed and my precision. And he’s not going to win us the cup.
I know it. They know it. The whole media knows it.
So it’s my fault that we’re going to lose this season.
I’m sorry, A. I didn’t mean for it to happen…
When the bugs start to crawl on my skin and my neck starts to feel hot, I fist my hands. I press them on my thighs to stop the jitters in my legs.
I’m not sure if my therapist is oblivious to my discomfort or if she’s aware but simply choosing to ignore it, because her next question makes it even worse.
“So how you’re feeling about your new job?”
“It’s a joke of a job,” I snap out before I can stop myself.
I didn’t mean to say that.
I honestly didn’t. I’m not one to complain when it comes to paying for my mistakes and I know the purpose of this job.