Blocked

by Jennifer Lane

“Oh.” Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes crinkled as a little snorting sound escaped. “For your alcohol bender?”

  “Don’t laugh.” I narrowed my eyes, though I was grateful to see her open up to me a little. “There are about one million places I’d rather be right now.” Her bright smile made my day.

  “I hear you. But she’s not too bad. Just get her talking about her fat cat and the hour will fly by.”

  “Gotcha.” My reward for winking at her was a soft bloom of pink on her face.

  “Uh, um, so you get to stay on the team?”

  I exhaled. “Yeah. Phil took pity on me.”

  “That’s awesome news.” She looked as relieved as I felt. Then she leaned into Allison as the agent whispered something in her ear. “Well, I gotta go.” She squirmed. “I have to meet with the dietitian.” A fake smile plastered her face. “Fantástico.”

  I knew how hard it was to swallow pride and deal with jacked-up emotions—we were both trying to figure that out. And only we knew the discomfort of salvaging our personal lives in front of three hundred million people. “You’re doing great, you know.”

  She looked up at me with big, brown eyes, and I realized I’d surprised her by saying something nice. That wasn’t right. Lucia hadn’t deserved my initial goading simply because I disagreed with her father’s politics—okay, and hers too. Apparently my problems with building trust weren’t limited to my coaches—I had quite a few relationships to improve.

  “Are you ready, Dane?” a female voice asked behind me.

  I turned to find a solidly built woman with hazel eyes looking up at me, her hand extended. “Carly Valentine.”

  I swallowed as I reached to shake her hand. “Let’s do this.” I swiveled to face Lucia. “See you at home, sweetheart?” Whoops, that just slipped out.

  She froze in place, and I’d never seen her face so flushed. Her cheeks almost matched the color of her hot pink shirt. Lucia’s panicked eyes darted to Dr. Valentine, whose expression remained neutral, before she looked back at me. “Uh, yeah. I…better go. Bye!”

  I watched her zoom off, and Allison almost had to jog to keep up with her.

  “Shall we?” Dr. Valentine gestured to the entrance of the sports medicine office. I let her go first, and Brad introduced himself as we walked down the hall.

  Once he’d checked out her office and planted himself outside the door, she turned to me and said, “You’re probably familiar with how this works, since your mom’s a psychologist, but I need to review informed consent anyway.”

  I nodded and signed a couple forms as she explained them. I wondered what Lucia had thought of all of this psychobabble.

  “So, Dane…” She settled back in her chair with her pen poised over a notepad. “Why here, why now?”

  “You know what happened yesterday, right?”

  “Your beer video’s had a lot of hits online, yes. You’re quite the celebrity.”

  I closed my eyes and stifled a groan.

  “But I want to hear from you about what’s bringing you in.”

  “You mean, why I went on a rampage?”

  “If that’s what you call it.” She shrugged.

  “What the hell would you call it?”

  She clicked her pen. “How about we back up a bit? How old were you when you started playing volleyball?”

  This seemed like more comfortable territory. “Ten.”

  “You’re a setter, right?”

  I nodded.

  “What do you love about volleyball?”

  “Winning.” She smiled but kept looking at me like she wanted more. I scratched my neck. “And, diving for a save. Setting the perfect ball.” I pictured the old arena in my mind. “Acing a serve. Dumping the ball over the net when they least expect it.” I was on a roll. “But the best part is when we’re deep in the fifth game, and both teams are toast, our jerseys stick to us with sweat, and the coach calls a time-out—we’re staring at each other in the huddle and it’s like a total connection, total brotherhood…nobody knows who’s gonna win, but we know we’re gonna fight like rabid pit bulls, and the crowd’s going nuts, my muscles tingle…then the ref’s whistle blows, and it’s time to unleash holy hell…” I noticed her smile widen. “What?”

  “You got my heart pumping!” She placed a hand over her chest. “Sounds like you feel truly alive in that moment.”

  “Yeah. It’s amazing.” I looked away, silently cursing myself. “And I almost flushed moments like that right down the toilet.”

  “You thought you’d be dismissed from the team?”

  “I was worried. Phil had already suspended me, then I pull that shit with the beer? I mean, how many chances will he give me? He’s the best coach I’ve ever had, and I went and jeopardized the whole thing.” I rubbed the lifeline of my palm as I sighed. “He kept telling me to come see you, and, like a jackass, I ignored him.”

  A line creased her forehead. “I’m trying to keep up, here. Michelle told me about the underage drinking, but you were suspended before that?”

  “I thought Phil talked to you.”

  “Only the administrator calls me in these situations. What were you suspended for?”

  “Anger management problems,” I explained, accenting with air quotes. “I stepped over the line with my coaches.”

  “What happened?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “You know, many athletes struggle with anger. We ask you to be ultra-aggressive in your sport, then expect you to just shut it down when you walk off the court. It’s not that easy.”

  “I should know better.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m not just a dumb jock.”

  “Clearly. What’s your GPA?”

  I shrugged. “It’s an A average. But psychology research methods might bring me down this year.”

  “Every psych major’s nightmare.” She smiled knowingly. “What made you so angry that you acted out on your coach? You seem to respect him.”

  “What a relief to get that off my chest.” My dad’s smug face filled my mind, and I felt my right hand clench into a fist. “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t?”

  “No.” But I wanted to. I wanted to ‘get that off my chest’ too. “Not when you’re telling the AD and my coaches what I say in here.”

  “I have to report your attendance and overall progress to them, but not specifics.” She studied me. “I realize you have unique security considerations with your mother’s position, and I’ll be extra careful with privileged information. Secret Service already briefed me this morning.”

  “They did?”

  “I could get into a lot of trouble with the government if I leaked any information. But Dane, I would keep your secrets even without Secret Service calling me. That’s what confidentiality is about.”

  I sighed. “I guess it helps that you’re voting for my mother, too.”

  She blinked at me.

  “Aren’t you?” I sat forward on the sofa.

  “How I vote is important to you?”

  “Uh, yeah. I won’t feel safe disclosing secrets to a crazy conservative.”

  “You seemed to feel pretty comfortable talking to Lucia out there.”

  “She’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s…Wait a minute! Are you telling me you’re a fucking Republican?”

  “I’m not telling you jack shit, Dane.” She leaned forward. “My political beliefs aren’t important right now. Your beliefs are. Your feelings, thoughts, behaviors—that’s the focus here.”

  I crossed my arms over my midsection as I slumped back.

  “Whether I share your political philosophy doesn’t influence my ability to be a good psychologist for you. We may be different in many ways. For example, I’m not a guy, I’m not your age, and I don’t play volleyball. I don’t hear you questioning those things.”

  “Did anyone tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”

  “All the time.” She relaxed in
her chair. “Did anyone tell you you’re blunt and feisty when somebody challenges you?”

  I unfolded my arms. “All the time.” We shared a small smile.

  “I’m guessing this anger management issue that got you suspended is also related to your alcohol use. Is that right?”

  “Yesterday was one giant clusterfuck, yes.”

  “So what started the clusterfuck?”

  I liked how she swore—it felt like I was talking to a teammate. Though teammates were a hell of a lot more trustworthy since they wouldn’t evaluate every word out of my mouth with laser-beam psychological insight. I jiggled my thigh as I studied her bookcase.

  “You’re a high-energy guy, aren’t you?”

  My thigh stilled. “I guess.”

  “Feel free to stand up, walk around as we talk.”

  “Really?” I’d itched to get off that sofa from the second I’d sat down. I hopped up and stepped over to check out her book collection. I noticed several titles my mother owned. As I thumbed through one of them, I asked, “What do you know about my dad?”

  “Um, he’s an artist, right?”

  “A painter.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about him. He hasn’t been in the news lately—I haven’t seen him at your mother’s campaign stops.”

  I blew air out my nose.

  “That bothers you?”

  I replaced the book and walked over to examine the posters of fall sports teams on her wall. The Highbanks volleyball poster featured the seniors on the team, including Maddie in an action shot blocking the ball. I noticed Bridgetown looming on the girls’ schedule in October, and wondered if Lucia’s parents would attend the match. I knew there’d be no way good ole Patrick would travel to watch me play Bridgetown next March. “My dad has basically ignored us the past year.”

  “You have a younger sister, right?”

  “Jessica.”

  “You’re angry and hurt your dad hasn’t come to watch your games.”

  I turned to look at her, and she stared back at me. Feeling unnerved by her intuition, I returned to the sofa. “Is it okay if I lie down?”

  “Fine with me, though your legs won’t fit.”

  I stretched my body lengthwise, with my head on an overstuffed pillow resting up against one armrest, and my feet dangling over the opposite armrest. “It’s okay, I’m used to it. I never fit.” I watched her scribble something on the notepad. “What did you just write down?”

  She paused. “I wrote, He feels like he doesn’t fit in.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You’re right. I was just thinking how hard it is for you to be in the spotlight all the time—not only on the national stage, with your mother running for president, but also as one of the best athletes at a big sports school. And then there’s your height. You must stick out like the Jolly Green Giant, only not so jolly, maybe.”

  I thought about her words. “It’s not hard, most of the time. I like it, and I’m proud of my mom. I don’t want to be average. I want to be exceptional.”

  “So you thrive on the attention most of the time. When is it not so great?”

  “When I lose control in front of everyone.” I smacked my forehead. “I’ve got to get my shit together.”

  “You get mad at yourself when you’re not exceptional.”

  “Pretty much. That was so cliché of me to take out my anger on the wrong person. I should know better.”

  “Who deserved your anger?”

  I sat up and rested my elbows on my knees. “You tell me, Dr. Valentine.”

  “You’re challenging me.” She grinned. “I like that. Based on what you’ve told me so far, I’d guess you were angry with your father for not being around, and you took that out on your coaches.”

  “Bingo. My head has now been shrunk. Can I go now?”

  “You hate being here, huh?”

  “I don’t…” I exhaled. “I don’t hate it, and I’m not mad at you.” I punched the pillow. “I hate talking about my dad, though.”

  “What do you notice inside of you right now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where in your body do you notice your anger? Is your heart beating fast? Your stomach clenched?”

  I held still for a moment. “Yeah. My face feels hot, and my mind, it’s going really fast.”

  “What color is your anger?”

  I thought for a moment. “Scarlet.”

  “What is its shape?”

  “It’s, um, like lava. But not oozing—it’s racing through my body. And when I think about my dad, the lava explodes.” I flicked my hands up, fanning them out over my head. “I want to destroy shit.”

  “Nice job. That’s a vivid image. The more you know about your anger, the more you can manage it.”

  “My anger makes me out of control. I don’t want to know more about it.”

  “You want to get rid of your anger. Obliterate it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s where alcohol comes in.”

  I froze. How did she know I was craving a drink right then? “You’re trying to get me to admit I’m an alcoholic. I don’t drink to numb my emotions. I drink for fun—to celebrate good times.”

  “First of all, I don’t believe you’re an alcoholic, and labels like that aren’t helpful anyway. Secondly, you didn’t seem to have a good time when you drank with that reporter.”

  I scowled. “I can’t believe she secretly filmed that.” Fox News Bitch.

  “Well, she did get her comeuppance.”

  “She did?”

  Dr. Valentine tilted her head. “You didn’t hear? She got fired, and she’s facing criminal charges for buying alcohol for a minor.”

  Whoa. Despite my fury, I felt guilt squeeze my chest. I’d been the one goading her to buy me beer.

  “Shit just got real, huh?” She smirked at me.

  I glared at her. “Are you saying it’s my fault she got fired?”

  “Not at all. That reporter’s an adult who made an adult choice to break the law in order to get a story. But there are negative consequences from your drinking. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  I said nothing.

  “Repeating a behavior despite negative consequences—do you know what that’s called?”

  Addiction. “I’m not an addict.”

  “Good to hear. Prove it to me and your coaches, then.”

  Frustration simmered in my gut. I hate this shit. Therapy wasn’t so bad, though I should be the one asking the questions, not the one answering them. But I was tired of my jackhole behavior. I just want to play volleyball, go to class, and be done with it. Why do I get myself into these situations?

  “You look angry.”

  I clenched my teeth. “Shocker.”

  “I’d be angry too if I had to face feelings I’d rather keep buried.”

  A few seconds went by as I fidgeted on the sofa. “So why face them, then?”

  “Because suppressing feelings gives them more power. You can’t just get rid of feelings, no matter how hard you try. Alcohol, other drugs, eating disorders, gambling…they’re all an effort to squelch negative emotion. They provide temporary relief, but then the emotion comes roaring back.”

  I thought of Lucia and me. Were we both suppressing emotions we didn’t want to face?

  “But they’re just feelings. They can’t hurt you. Trying to suppress them—that’s what can hurt you. If you acknowledge feelings and deal with them effectively, they can help you.”

  “No way anger can help. It always screws things up for me.”

  “I think you’re confusing anger and aggression.” She studied me. “Anger is a healthy feeling we all experience, whether we’re aware of it or not. Anger can help by communicating our needs. For example, if I feel angry, that might be a sign my rights are being stepped on, and I need to assert myself. Think about it for a second…how does your anger help you?”

  I felt my eyebrows draw together. “I
got pissed off when Bridgetown beat us last year…and I guess it motivated me to work out extra hard this summer.”

  “Yes, feelings can motivate behavior. Anger the feeling is normal and healthy. Aggression the behavior is not okay. Yelling, name-calling, and violence can hurt others.”

  Lucia’s wounded eyes filled my mind—one of many times she’d reacted to my insults about her father.

  “Looks like you’re doing some thinking over there.”

  I realized I’d been quiet for a few moments. “I’m an aggressive asshole.”

  She laughed. “Now that doesn’t sound fair. Just because you’ve behaved aggressively doesn’t make you an aggressive person. And you need to be aggressive on the court.”

  I frowned.

  “Let’s talk about effective ways to deal with your anger off the court, besides drinking alcohol or lashing out. You already know about diaphragmatic breathing, right?”

  “Yes.” I remembered teaching it to Lucia when she freaked out.

  “Have you heard of paced breathing?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s when your exhale is longer than your inhale. Paced breathing actually slows your heart rate. Let’s take some breaths where you inhale to a count of two and exhale to a count of four.” She nodded at me.

  I humored her by practicing. One, two…I held my breath a moment, then breathed out One, two, three, four. I was surprised I still had breath left at the end of the long exhale. One, two…one, two, three, four.

  “What do you notice when you practice paced breathing?”

  “Uh…my mind slows down, I guess.”

  “Yes, and a clear mind helps you avoid acting like an ‘aggressive asshole.’” She smiled. “Your self-talk—how you coach yourself in your mind—is also important in managing anger. Have you studied Albert Ellis in your psych classes yet?”

  “A little bit…he’s a cognitive therapist.”

  “Right. He found that ‘should’ statements increase anger. Shoulds are unwritten rules or expectations that we might want to be true, but aren’t necessarily true. Earlier you said ‘I should know better.’ How’d you feel when you thought that?”

  “Ticked off at my stupidity.”

  “So the ‘should’ statement increased your anger. But where’s it written that you should know better? You wish you could have avoided repeating the same mistake, but we humans often do just that. It’s not true that you should know better. It is true that you’d prefer you made another choice. You wish you’d acted differently. When you say ‘should,’ you’re shoulding all over yourself.”