Page 48 of Penalty to the Heart

I then watch him waltz out of my office with a devil-may-care attitude, whistling the Guardians’ anthem, completely unfazed by the destruction he just caused.

It’s so clear to me now.

Caleb Donovan might have come into my life broken, but if I’m not careful, he’ll be the instrument that breaks me.

Chapter 8

Caleb

To say that I’m a little annoyed right now is a gross understatement.

I’m fucking pissed off.

After the way I left things with the distinguished Dr. Seymour yesterday, I was sure it would be the last time I’d ever see her again.

So, imagine my fucking surprise when her receptionist called me up today telling me—no, fucking ordering me—to come to St. Francis Church after practice. Her boss even went as far as getting Coach Byrne to drive me here like I was some kind of runaway bride or something.

I must have miscalculated how fucking invested the good doctor is in seeing this whole therapy charade through. That, or she’s under a lot of pressure from the GM to get my head on straight.

Whatever her reasoning, I resent my presence here.

I thought she was smart enough to understand that I don’t play nice when I’m backed into a corner. Whatever she thinks she has in store for me, she has another thing coming.

I’m a lost cause.

So, if this is her way of punishing me for my behavior yesterday, she can get back in line with everyone else.

“I don’t have all day, kid. Dr. Seymour said she’ll be inside waiting for you,” Coach Byrne says when I make no move to get out of his car.

I curse under my breath and put a baseball cap on before getting out.

“I’ll be back here to pick you up in an hour,” he yells out the window before driving off.

Great.

Now I have a babysitter.

Well played, Roxie. Well fucking played.

With my hands tucked in my pockets, I navigate through the bustling crowd on the sidewalk until I reach the church’s steps. When I look up at the church’s grandiose double doors, a flood of memories begins to overwhelm me, transporting me back to the last time I visited this church as a young boy.

“Stop messing with your tie,” Jack says beside me, looking like a damn grown-up in his blue tie and blazer.

“I can’t help it,” I whine as I continue to fidget with it. “It’s choking me.”

Jack lets out an exhale as he stares at the poor excuse of a knot I made.

“Here, let me fix it,” he says patiently, while everyone who passes by us gives their condolences to our mother before entering the church. I pretend not to see the pitying glances they throw our way while my big brother loosens my tie and fixes it for me.

“Didn’t Dadever teach you how to tie a tie?” he grumbles, his fingers fast at work.

“He tried … once,” I mumble.

Dad always taught things once.

He was a big believer that if you didn’t get something the first time, then he wouldn’t bother teaching you a second.

And as luck would have it, I was the kind of kid who never got things on the first try.

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