Not everyone makes it. I know that, but it’s still hard. And it’s one thing when a patient is belligerent and nasty, but when I can see the pain in their eyes—how badly they wish they could beat back their demons—it’s tough.
My new session of patients deserves to get the very best of me, though. This work is emotionally taxing, and several of my colleagues take a break in between sessions to recharge themselves mentally.
Not me, though. Where would I go? What would I do? I’m in debt up to my eyeballs with student loans, so I can’t justify time off.
I finish my shower and dry my unruly mane of long dark blond curls, wondering yet again why I don’t just get a practical, short haircut. I keep it pulled back in a ponytail more than half the time, anyway. And my last date was more than a year ago, so it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.
I put on my favorite black pants, a maroon blouse, black booties and some light makeup, then grab my toast and lunch bag on my way out the door.
“You’re good enough, you’re smart enough and doggone it, people like you!” Amelia calls after me.
She’s been saying that to me when I leave for the day since I was in grad school. We have a thing for SNL reruns.
My walk to the El Train platform is chilly this early November morning. I button up my wool coat and put on my gloves as I cover the three-quarters of a mile walk as quickly as possible.
While walking up the stairs to the platform, I rifle through my shoulder bag, looking for the notes that detail the four clients in my new small group. I meant to review them over the weekend, but the pull of Netflix was too strong. Even though I’ll have time during my commute to read them, it usually takes the whole first week of actual interaction to get a read on new clients.
“Hey gorgeous, you dropped this,” a male voice says as I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I’ve just reached the top of the stairs when I turn to see a polished man in a dark suit grinning at me. His hair is combed back neatly and his smile is bright enough to be featured in a toothpaste commercial.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the earbuds he’s holding out to me.
They must’ve fallen out of my bag when I was digging for the notes. I shove them into a pocket and resume my walk when the man’s hand returns to my shoulder.
“You need some help?” he asks me. “I can carry your bag if you want. All I’d need in return is your number.”
He flashes the perfect grin again. I cringe inwardly. He reminds me of all the men I’ve gone out with and felt like I should like. Handsome, professional, confident and well-mannered.
And yet…I want to run in the other direction. Because I can tell his manners come with an ulterior motive. Does he really think picking up my earbuds is going to get him laid? And does he regularly touch women he doesn’t even know, and address them as “gorgeous?” Not a man I’d want on my arm.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say shortly.
His grin fades and he shrugs, mentally moving on. I hike the strap of my bag up over my shoulder and scan the platform for Ernie. He’s not in his usual spot, and I feel a twinge of worry as I look through the crowd in search of the little bald man.
I smile as I find him sitting with his back against a steel pillar, flossing his teeth. Ernie is particular about his dental health, as he’s told me at least a dozen times. He likes to say he may not have a home or a lick of sense, but he’s still got all his teeth, and that’s worth something.
“Good morning, Miss Graysen,” Ernie says when he sees me approaching. “Lovely day in the Windy City, isn’t it?”
“Good morning, Ernie. It could be worse out here, couldn’t it?”
He grins up at me, gesturing at a Styrofoam cup on the ground next to him. “I’ve got hot coffee and the sun’s shining; that’s about perfect in my book.”
The El Train announces its arrival with an approaching rumble. I reach into the pocket of my coat and take out a chocolate chip protein bar. Ernie’s whole face lights up when I hand it to him.
“Now I’ve got lunch, too! This day just keeps getting better. I thank you, Miss Graysen.”
I nod, giving him a quick smile and a wave as I head for the train. It’s too loud for him to hear me now. This is our daily ritual. Sometimes he turns down the protein bar if he already has something lined up to eat that day, but usually, he takes it.
The train takes off down the track again and I grab a bar for support, my mind still on Ernie. I know it’s not ideal to be homeless, but I admire his optimism. He doesn’t have much, but he doesn’t complain. Something as simple as a protein bar makes him happy.
Many of my patients could take a cue from Ernie. The Beckett Recovery Center is a posh, luxurious rehab facility that only the wealthy can afford. We have gourmet chefs, personal trainers and full-service staff. Many rehab centers give patients a room with a cot and a chair—maybe a window if they’re lucky. Beckett is more like a five-star hotel.
And still, I regularly encounter patients who blame everyone but themselves for their situation. The ones who see Beckett as an opportunity have a chance to complete the program and live a healthier life. But the ones who see it as a prison make my work a challenge.
Sliding into an open seat, I pull the patient files out of my bag and choose one to start reading. Time to find out more about my patients in this session. Will they do the hard work required to get sober, or roll their eyes at every question I ask them? I can usually tell based on their intake interviews.
And based on what I’m reading, this is going to be a very interesting session.
3
Alexei
The auditorium at the Beckett Recovery Center is not made for people on crutches.
There’s not enough space between my seat and the one in front of mine for me to get my crutches stable enough to balance all my weight on my good leg so I can stand up.
Gritting my teeth, I shift up, using my upper body strength to balance myself on one crutch while I try to position the other one. Somehow, I manage to get upright without falling.
The hip I dislocated in the car crash fucking hurts, even three weeks after the accident. I had to wean myself off of all pain medications before Beckett would accept me as a patient, and I’m really missing whatever meds the doctors were giving me for my hip pain.
I couldn’t lay in that bed anymore, though. Hockey season is already underway, and just watching isn’t working for me. So I fibbed about my pain levels to get into rehab faster.
I told the nurses and doctors I was good to go, that the hip’s getting better every day. Really, though, I’m worried about it. Every day I’m not working out, my physical shape deteriorates. That’s not good for a pro athlete. I’ve been injured before, but nothing to this degree. It’s going to take a lot of physical therapy to get my hip back where it was.
I’ll do whatever it takes. I have to be able to skate at the same level as before the crash. I’d be much better off if I’d dislocated my shoulder instead of my hip.
But here I am hobbling on crutches, the possibility of arthritis in my hip hitting home about forty years too early. Not to mention that I’m seriously concerned about whether I’ll ever be able to properly fuck a woman again.
“Hey, man. You’re blue two, too.” A guy who looks about my age is pointing at the nametag on my chest as we wait in line to get out of the auditorium. He laughs and says, “That sounded like blue tutu, didn’t it?”
I look at the nametag on his chest, which has the same Blue Two small group name as mine.
“I’m Joe Randolph,” he says, offering me his hand to shake but immediately withdrawing it. “Sorry, guess you can’t shake with the crutches.”
I nod at him instead. “Hey, Joe. I’m Alexei Petrov. Nice to meet you.”
He blows out a breath, looking nervous as the line to depart the auditorium slowly moves. “So…ever been to rehab before?”
“Nope. You?”
He shakes his head. “But man, I r
eally hope this sticks because I straight up thought I was gonna die from the withdrawal symptoms. Did you get the DTs?”
“The what?”
“Delirium tremens. They kicked in when I was in the medical wing of this place going through withdrawal. I had the craziest hallucinations. Thought giant bear ninjas were trying to kill me.”
“That’s fucked up, man.”
Joe nods as we make it to the auditorium door. “I never want to see another bear again.”
“How much were you drinking?” I ask incredulously.
He shrugs. “I don’t even remember, to be honest. A lot, obviously.”
“Damn.”
“We’re supposed to go to room 117,” he says, pointing to a sign. “It’s this way.”
“If I went through any withdrawal symptoms, I was probably in a coma at the time,” I admit.
“You’re lucky, then.”
I quirk a brow at Joe. “You think?”
With a sheepish grin, he says, “I guess not…you get a DUI?”
“Technically, no. But I had to pay the guy whose barn I wasted about double the cost of the actual damage I did and come here to avoid it.”
“I guess you were kinda lucky, then. Could have been a lot worse. I mean, you’ll heal and get off the crutches.”
“Yeah,” I concede. “It could’ve been worse.”
Joe runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair as he holds the door to room 117 open for me. He seems like a nice guy. If all I have to do to get back to hockey is spend a couple weeks with people like him, I can handle that.
The room we walk into is plain in comparison to the rest of the Beckett Recovery Center, which is designed like an upscale lodge, but in here, there are white walls, dark wood floors and a bunch of overstuffed chairs set up in a circle.
Other than that, there’s a glass water pitcher in the corner with little paper cups stacked next to it on a table that also holds two boxes of tissues, and nothing else.
Tissues—in case we cry? I scoff inwardly. I don’t like talking about feelings with people I know, let alone total strangers. And feelings are overrated anyway. I’ve got a handful of emotional zones—chill, pissed off, horny and game face—and that’s about it.
“Come on in and have a seat,” a woman says from one of the chairs. “Everyone’s here now, so we can get started.”
Wow. When they said small groups, they meant small. There’s the woman in charge, two other women, Joe and me.
I use my crutches to get over to an open chair, then lean them against the side of it and ease myself into a sitting position. And then, I take stock.
The woman leading the group has long, blond curly hair. She’s got a nice, curvy body, but I can tell from the dark-rimmed glasses and blouse that she’s a buttoned-up type. No wedding ring, though. Perfect. She should be totally charmable. I found out in the big meeting I just sat through that I get to leave this place when she decides I’ve made enough progress to graduate. I plan to tell her whatever it takes to finish this program as fast as possible.
Then there’s a gray-haired woman, also buttoned up, who doesn’t strike me as your typical alcoholic. She looks like a grandma—one who would try to take you out to the Waldorf Astoria for lunch. She’s draped in jewels and well-dressed, but her expression doesn’t match the confidence of her attire.
And then…hell yeah. There’s a hot little piece across from me with jet-black, chin-length hair, red lipstick, a septum ring and tight leather pants. She looks angry as fuck, which I don’t mind one bit. Hotheads are usually wildcats in bed.
Not that I can use my hips at the moment. But there are lots of other things we can do.
“Okay,” the blond woman says. “I’m Dr. Graysen Wells, and I’m your group leader. In this session, the four of you are my only patients. Six days a week, you’ll do individual and group sessions with me. We’ll start our one on one sessions tomorrow. Today we’re going to just get to know each other a little bit.”
When her eyes land on me, I give her my warmest smile. Her gaze glosses right over me, though, and she clears her throat, her friendly expression turning serious.
“You guys have just been through a long intake session about the rules and expectations here,” she says. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but I find it best to go over my own expectations on the first day, too.”
I put on a mask of serious concern, trying to convey that if she wants me to share my feelings and weep into tissues, I’m here for it.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Graysen says firmly. “I’m twenty-nine years old, but I’ve been doing this type of work for a while. Emotions can run high in our sessions, but all I ask is that you’re honest and not openly rude to anyone, including me. If you came here thinking this place is a comfortable retreat, think again. Yes, we have amenities here. But the work that will go on in this room is anything but comfortable. We’re going to work on why you’re addicts. Pain and shame will be shared. If you’re going to bullshit your way through this program and not put in the work, please get up and walk out the door right now, because it’s not worth my time or your time. We have a long waiting list and I’ll give your spot to someone more deserving.”
All four of us are staring at her, the room silent. I wasn’t expecting this from her and the others probably weren’t, either.
“I decide if and when you graduate from your program,” she continues. “And I’ve got the lowest graduate rate of anyone at Beckett. I don’t pride myself on that. I want you to succeed. But you have to put in the effort.” She looks around our circle of chairs. “So before we get started, any questions?”
“Can we switch to another counselor if we want?” the dark-haired vixen asks.
“No.” Graysen’s answer is succinct.
Damn. I’m gonna have to work harder than I thought to charm this one. But I’ll find a way.
Graysen looks down at the clipboard in her lap. “Let’s introduce ourselves. Tell us who you are and why you’re here. We’ll start with Joe.”
“Hey, I’m Joe.” He gives a half-hearted wave. “I’m here because…” He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “…my wife gave me an ultimatum. She told me I had to get sober or she’s leaving me and taking our kids with her. So…here I am.”
Graysen’s expression thaws. She nods at Joe in understanding and looks at the older woman sitting next to him in the circle.
“I’m Melinda Morrow. I’m a wife, a mom of three, and a grandma of seven. This isn’t my first time at Beckett.” Her shoulders sink, her expression forlorn. “I completed the program nine years ago and stayed sober for seven years after that. Then I convinced myself I could handle a glass of wine before bed. Then that became two. Eventually, I was hiding bottles from my husband again.”
She turns to face a blank wall, the look in her eyes more defeated than I’ve ever seen on anyone. After several seconds of heavy silence, she continues. “A couple months ago I was driving home from dinner and drinks with friends and I…hit someone. I killed a nineteen-year-old boy. I was drunk at the time. That’s why I’m here.”
I keep my expression as neutral as I can, but inside, I’m stunned. I can feel Melinda’s crushing grief, but there are no words. What do you say to that?
“Thank you, Melinda,” Graysen says softly. “We don’t judge you.”
“You should,” Melinda’s voice chokes with emotion. “I deserve to be dead instead of him.”
Graysen’s eyes soften. “No one deserves that. Let’s take this one step at a time, okay? You’re here. You’re ready to face what happened. We’ll start there.”
Melinda just looks down at her lap, clutching a used tissue.
“Giana?” Graysen asks.
“It’s Gia,” the leather-clad woman says. She waves at us all and smirks. “Hey, I’m Gia and I’m an alcoholic; is that what I’m supposed to say?”
“Say whatever you feel,” Graysen tells her.
Gia shrugs. “I like to party. I’m a trust fund baby; m
y grandfather founded Trenton Pharmaceuticals. All his grandkids get their inheritance when they turn twenty-five, which is next month for me. He says I won’t get my money unless I finish this program. So here I am.”
Graysen ignores her and looks at me.
“Hey, I’m Alexei Petrov. I’m a hockey player. I’m here because I had a little too much to drink one night and I hit a barn. My new team owner wanted me to come here.”
Graysen nudges her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose, looking around the group.
“Before we get started, I need you all to answer this question. This program doesn’t work without your full participation. So tell me, do you want to be here? Raise your hand if the answer is yes.”
Joe immediately puts his hand in the air, and I follow. Melinda raises her hand about halfway, her expression still pained.
Everyone looks at Gia, who is staring at me, a smile playing on her lips. After a couple seconds of drinking me in, she rolls her eyes and puts her hand up.
Rehab isn’t what I was expecting so far, but I know one thing for sure—it’s not gonna be boring.
4
Alexei
“I see you’re originally from Russia. What was life like there?”
I shift in my chair, feeling a stab of annoyance at Graysen’s question.
“I left there when I was five,” I tell her. “I don’t really remember it.”
“Tell me about leaving.”
“Like I said, I don’t really remember it.”
“No memories at all about how that felt?”
I clear my throat, shifting in my chair again. “No, I only remember the plane ride. My brother and I flew here to live with a youth hockey coach and his wife.
“That must’ve been scary, to leave your home and your parents to come to a new country.”
Grinning, I say, “Worked out pretty well for us, though. Our parents just wanted us to have opportunities we never would’ve had there.”
Alexei: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance Page 2