Page 15 of My Grumpy Billionaire Soccer Star

A moment of silence ensues, followed by a throaty response from the other end of the phone, “You mean Craig, your therapist? And you mean now?”

“Well, if there’s any other Craig you know I might call you to schedule a meeting with, I would have been more specific. Be fast about it, Rachel.”

I hang up before she can reply, and I collapse my head on the bed.

A knock sounds from my bedroom door.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Elena. I made some dinner just in case you would want an early meal.”

“Okay.”

“Should I bring it up to your bedroom or leave it in the dining room?”

“The dining room. Now leave me alone.”

The footsteps grow fainter as she disappears back to where she came from.

I stand up straight from my bed, head to the wardrobe, and begin shuffling through a stockpile of clothes until my eyes settle on a pair of shorts and a white T-shirt. I quickly slip them on and head down to the living room. I am already halfway down the stairs when my front door opens.

Dr Craig stands at the door for a moment, his face dissolving into a friendly smile as soon as he sets his baby-blue eyes on me.

“Great timing, Doc. I am about to have dinner. Might as well join me.”

“That would be nice,” he says, his smile growing even wider.

The clock strikes 7:00 p.m. with a chime as I head to the dining room. Craig, in a full suit and carrying a briefcase, hops behind me. We settle ourselves into the chairs, and we dig into our rib-eye steaks and mashed potatoes without delay. Seeing how Dr. Craig devours his food makes me think back to how hard I tried to convince him to come over to my house for sessions instead of me going to his office. He declined vehemently, saying how it is unprofessional and isn’t healthy for boundaries. Now, here he is, gluttonously gulping down my expensive wine because he no longer feels like a stranger around here.

“You’re lucky you caught me just when I was about to leave for home,” he says, gulping down more wine.

“Oh, yeah?”

“That’s right. I was planning to have an early night today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I had to be the reason you couldn’t, then.”

He almost chokes on his food as he adjusts his tie, the smile slipping from his face. “No, I . . . I didn’t mean it that way. You know I am ready to come here at any time.”

I nod.

“Tasty meal, by the way, Mr. Vaughn.”

“All thanks to my chef.”

We finish our meal, step into the living room, and settle on the sofa. I am never a fan of therapy. I hate it. I used to think that it wasn’t for me until a teammate, Abel, recommended Dr. Craig to me. I reluctantly accepted and had a session with Dr. Craig, and here we are.

But the number of sessions I have had does nothing to smooth my nervous edges each time we meet for a session. It always feels like I am about to take a deep dive into a sea of frightening memories—memories I have managed to tame into oblivion.

I pick up the small porcelain figurine of myself with a ball that is laid on the table and begin toying with it nervously.

“So, Mr. Vaughn, how is your injury? Is it getting better?”

“Well, there’s been some progress, Doc. But it still hurts like hell.”

“I see. That is one of the risks you soccer players have to be prepared for, huh?”

“No lies detected.”

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