Page 9 of The Game She Hates

“But why? It’s not like you’re going to be my therapist, right?”

“I know, but it’s still not a good idea. Anyway, I will need your permission to share my notes from today’s session, which will be beneficial for the referral process.”

“Do I have access to those notes?”

I nearly chuckle at the question. There isn’t much he gave me to work with. “You do. It’s like your health records. They are primarily yours.”

When our awkward conversation reaches a stalemate, I decide it’s time to end the session before he tries any harder to break through my professional walls. “Well, it looks like our time is up. I have another family coming in soon, and I need to prepare.”

He gives me a wide grin and gets up. “I will see you again soon.”

Not if I have anything to say about it.

I smile back, relieved when he finally exits my office. It’s the first time my shoulders relax since Zane Ortiz’s appointment started. I couldn’t have endured it if this were a typical, full-length appointment and not just a brief introductory meeting—being in the room with him felt so suffocating.

8

Zane Ortiz

Thoughts of Pearl dancing through my mind are making my return back home the most exhilarating non-game-related drive ever. It’s amusing and downright adorable to recall the myriad of expressions she displayed, each one an attempt to maintain composure.

At one point, I started wondering if she’s truly a fan of mine, considering how adeptly she concealed that tidbit. She wasn’t too thrilled with my probing questions and offbeat comments, and it just made it hard for me to figure her out. Despite her still being a mystery to me, I could certainly tell she genuinely likes helping others, and she’s found a way to channel that passion through her profession.

I may have acted disappointed when she refused to be my therapist, but it was all part of my plan. Now that she’s not my therapist, there’s a chance to get to know her on a more personal level. And let me tell you, she’s the most intriguing person I’ve ever met. The way she furrowed her brows in thought, pursed her lips in anticipation of my responses, and twiddled nervously while her gaze remained fixed on her notepad—every detail is ingrained in my memory.

A chuckle escapes me as I pull into my garage, still thinking about her.

It’s never been my experience to encounter a woman who didn’t throw herself at me like a puck at a goal, vying for my attention. Pearl may be a fan, but she’s different—refreshingly so. The thought of getting to know her beyond the confines of a therapist’s office ignites a fire within me, propelling me to pursue her with all the fervor of a playoff game.

I cringe as I realize how absurdly passionate my thoughts sound. My views on women and love haven’t shifted overnight, but I also can’t deny the magnetic pull she has on me.

I burst through the door and toss my keys on the dining table as I make a beeline for my trusty Xbox. I flop on the couch, grab the controller and dive headfirst into the world of Call of Duty. It’s my go-to escape, and right now, I need it more than ever to take my mind off Pearl. Living alone in this big house I bought when I signed with the Glaciers definitely has its perks, but it can get lonely at times. Still, I’d choose a night in over the chaos of the bar scene any day.

My house, nestled in a peaceful neighborhood, features high ceilings, tiled floors, and a grand staircase that curves around leather sofas near a modern fireplace. It’s a far cry from the chaotic environment I grew up in, with my dad’s alcohol abuse that caused emotional turmoil from my early days. That’s why I steer clear of parties and post-game celebrations; I’d rather not risk falling into the same destructive patterns. I always fear that addiction lurks in my genes, and I don’t want to find out. Tyler and Carson aren’t party animals either, but for different reasons.

Still, when it comes to bonding, the team comes together whether it’s watching a game or hitting the gym. I genuinely enjoy hanging out with most of them off the ice, even though I might not always show it. Well, except for Trent—he just can’t seem to quit with his snarky comments directed at me.

The gunfire in the game slows down and my thoughts drift back to Pearl. I pause it and pull out my phone, quickly searching for “Pearl Davis” online. There it is—her practice, with nothing but five-star ratings and glowing reviews. I devour every word.

I feel like I’m getting to know her in a way I never did during our session today; she seemed so guarded. She’s described as kind, attentive, respectful, conversational, genuine, comforting, and she loves working with kids, among other praises.

There’s still so much more I want to know.

I zoom in on her professional photo, studying her features in detail. There’s something unique about her, something that’s really special and draws me in. Yet, even as I stare at her picture, it pales in comparison to the genuine presence and warmth I experienced earlier.

I switch gears and try to find her on social media. But it’s like she’s a ghost—there’s nothing, not even a hint of her personal life. Frustrated, I madly toss my phone to the end of the couch, my heart skipping a beat as it almost hits the floor. I can’t afford to break my screen twice in the same month.

It’s baffling—in this age, where we have so much information at our fingertips, how can she be this hard to find?

The sound of my phone ringing cuts through my game and I instinctively assume it’s Coach checking in on how therapy went, or maybe one of the guys wanting to shoot the breeze. But when I glance at the screen, it’s Aunt Melissa’s name flashing. My heart jolts.

I hesitate, my first instinct not to answer—it’s become almost routine to let her calls go to voicemail. But each time I do, a twinge of guilt gnaws at me. Aunt Melissa is my mom’s only sister, and for as long as I can remember, she’s been relentless in her efforts to get closer to me, to treat me like her own. But I’ve kept her at arm’s distance, for two reasons.

First, I never knew my mom, and Aunt Melissa is the closest connection I have to her. She puts into perspective a connection I should’ve had with my own mother but never got the chance to experience. And second, how could I accept her affection when the man who should have loved me most never did? It’s been hard to let her in, to fully believe in her affection. I’ve pushed her away for years, but she’s never stopped trying.

Now, as I’ve grown older and started to believe that maybe she does love me, it feels like it’s too late to reciprocate. That’s why I haven’t been back to Chicago since I moved to Bedford.

The phone stops ringing, and another prick of conscience tightens in my chest. I know all she wants is to check on me, to ask how I’m doing. And for some reason, I decide I owe it to her to do better this time.

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