Page 45 of Penalty to the Heart

“You’re still here?” Caleb says, strutting into the office like he owns it.

I’m so stunned by his blasé attitude that I have to blink twice to make sure he’s not some sort of apparition.

When I finally find my voice, I reply, “Yes, Mr. Donovan. I am. You, on the other hand, are extremely late.”

“Had shit to do,” he says with an unapologetic shrug before plopping onto the couch and making himself comfortable. “Just be happy I came at all.”

“You do realize that’s not how therapy works. I’m not on your time, Mr. Donovan. You’re on mine. If you cannot respect that, we’ll have a significant problem on our hands.”

“Then I’ll just add it to the shit pile of problems I already have.” He smirks. “And my name is Caleb, Roxie. I thought we covered that already.”

Upon hearing him giving me such a ridiculous nickname, my knee-jerk reaction is to put him in his place and give him a good telling-off for wasting my time.

But then it occurs to me that’s probably exactly what he’s banking on—me losing all composure and getting so upset with him that I’ll eventually give up. That way, he could go back to the GM pretending to be blameless about my refusal to treat him.

A child.

I’m dealing with a child.

Lord, help me.

Determined not to give him the satisfaction, I grab my notepad, pen, and recorder before settling into the armchair nearest the couch.

“Today’s date is March the thirty-first. The time is a quarter past six. This is Caleb Donovan’s second therapy session,” I speak into the recorder before placing it on the coffee table by my side. “Before we start, I’m interested in knowing the reason for your one-hour delay today. May I ask what you believe to be a priority over your own mental well-being?”

“You can ask all you want. Doesn’t mean I’ll tell you. What I do on my time is my business.”

“Did you go to see your brother at the hospital? Is that why you’re late?”

His cocky grin falls off his face and is replaced with a threatening scowl.

“Again, none of your business.”

I straighten my spine so he can see I’m not easily intimidated.

“Very well. Then let’s discuss something that is my business. Yesterday, you acknowledged that you started the fight in the Florida game because you were bored. Can you elaborate a little more on that?”

“Elaborate?” he parrots, confused.

“Yes. For example, can you pinpoint the exact moment you felt that way? What triggered such boredom?” I insist calmly.

“How the fuck should I know? Maybe it was because the Blackhawks can’t play for shit. Or maybe it was because I would rather be playing on my own turf than have to go all the way to Tampa to beat those guys. All of it bored the shit out of me. Much like how this conversation is right now.”

I make a point of noting down his frustration with such a question.

“And have you always felt the need to act out anytime you feel bored?”

“I didn’t act out. I just spiced things up. There’s a difference.”

“I beg to differ. By your own account in yesterday’s session, that’s exactly what you said you do from time to time. It’s very reminiscent of a child’s behavior when he doesn’t get his way.”

“I’m not a fucking child,” he says aggressively, turning on the couch so he can sit facing me.

“Does that also happen a lot? Boredom morphing into anger?” I question patiently.

“I’m not angry.” He grits his teeth.

“No?” I arch a brow.

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