The Girlfriend Game

PROLOGUE

"Zeke? Can you hear me? Open your eyes, man. Open your goddamn eyes."

I can hear the panicked words spoken from my teammate, Carver Edwards, kneeling next to me, but I can’t see him. Normally, the lights of the arena are so bright they’re nearly blinding, but my vision has gone dark and everything is pitch black. My vision has completely disappeared and I am freaking the fuck out.

I hear his voice and understand the words, but I can’t respond. Words muddle together and get stuck in the back of my throat. Carver’s voice sounds like he’s speaking to me from the far end of a mile-long train tunnel; muted and overlapping with the blare of a train whistle that whooshes loudly through my ears.

There’s a quiet murmur from the crowd, mixed with the hushed whispers of my teammates on the sidelines that oddly creates a massive cacophony of noise inside my head. It competes with the deafeningly loud and racing heartbeat in my chest.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t see.

What is wrong with me?

Terror streaks through my head as Carver shakes my shoulders, my body jerking with the motion. As if dislodging the cloak of darkness, my eyes pop open to find Carver sagging with relief at my side.

Thank God. You fucking scared me.

Suddenly, Marek Talbert, the team’s GM, Coach Green, and our team doctor appear at my side, all shouting questions at me over one another.

Where are you hurt?

Is it your heart?

What happened?

Under normal circumstances, I’d push them away, telling them to fuck off and stop treating me like a baby. But all I’m able to do right now is stare at them, my head seized with paralyzing fear; as if something foreign has overtaken my body, restraining and imprisoning me in its controlling grip. I’m unable to move or respond. I open my mouth to try to speak, but nothing comes out. I try moving my arms, my head, my legs. Nothing.

Okay, now I’m really freaked out.

I blink and blink again, trapped inside a world that’s quickly turning hazy as I lose focus. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it can’t be good.

Zeke. Talk to us. Tell us what’s going on.

The question comes from Marek, whose calm composure is a stabilizing force for this team. Rarely does he get riled up or lose his cool, but he can’t hide the trace of trepidation running through his voice, which does little to comfort me in this time of need. Confusion and fear hit me all over again as my eyes roll back inside my head, and then everything goes black.

When I wake up in a hospital sometime later, I’m surrounded by beeping machines and a medical team that is constantly in and out of my room, checking my vitals, poking and prodding, and asking questions I can’t answer. All I want is for them to tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.

You’re awake, comes a soft voice from the right side of my bed. I slowly turn my head against the scratchy pillow, which reeks of bleach and Lysol, to peer at a nurse standing at my bedside. Hi, Zeke. I’m Carla, the nurse on duty. You’re safe now and we’ve given you a sedative, so you’re probably feeling very groggy. That’s normal. But the doctor wanted me to tell you he’ll be in soon to speak with you.

My mouth feels gritty, and I lick around my lips, the arid texture like sandpaper against my dry tongue.

Nurse Carla seems to anticipate my needs and hands me a tiny cup with a straw. Here you go. I’ll move your bed up so you can take a few sips.

The motion of the bed has my head spinning in a dizzying motion. I catch myself with a hand against the cold metal rail of the hospital bed to keep myself steady. The nurse throws a hand out against my shoulder, boosting me back upright.

When my vision clears, the white spots slowly dissipating, I glance down at the end of the bed looking for a place to focus. I notice my feet poking out underneath the blue hospital blanket, which is clearly not made for six-foot-seven basketball players.

Nurse Carla giggles affably as she takes note of the same thing and reaches down to cover my toes with the blanket, shrugging apologetically.

At least the bed is long enough, she teases, but then turns as heavy and purposeful footfalls echo from the doorway. My head swivels toward the door to see the doctor striding confidently through the doorway. He’s an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a full beard. Holding a tablet in his hands, he gives me a brief head nod in greeting, and his eyes glide over me before he flips his glasses up on top of his head and his eyes land on my face.

Good evening, Mr. Forester. Sounds like you took a doozy of a spill out on the court tonight.

I squint, screwing up my forehead at his comment. I guess…I can’t remember much.

Hmm… he hums, tapping some notes into the tablet before assessing me with concern etched on his brow. I see…well, we’ll continue to run some more tests, but so far, the tests we’ve done have all returned negative and inconclusive. The EKG indicates nothing with your heart. You’re in great shape there.

I scoff with annoyance, as if I should be grateful for a good ticker. I suppose I should, but it doesn’t help me in the least if there’s no explanation for why I blacked out tonight.

The doctor continues. And I see the blood panels indicate no signs of elevated white blood cells, which eliminates the possibility of cancer, narrowing things down significantly. Although, we are still waiting for neuroimaging to check for any signs of neurological trauma. You haven’t had a concussion or hit your head recently, have you?

I shake my head. Not that I recall.

I try to remember the past few weeks, but it’s all a blur. My stress levels have been through the roof as our team has endured some painful losses leading up to the conference playoffs and, hopefully, the NBA finals this year—the pinnacle of every player’s hopes and dreams when they reach the NBA. If the Pilots do win, it would be my second championship ring in my ten-year career.

What if it’s not my brain? Does that mean I’m okay? I ask optimistically, hanging on to the small hope that it’s an easy fix and a one-time thing. Just a fluke and a blip in time. I don’t need the unknown hanging over my head. All I want is to get back out there with my team to clinch the conference title. I’ve never missed a game or had a significant injury of any sort in my NBA career. What do you think happened to me out there, Doctor?

His name tag says Harmon, MD.

He strums a hand along his trim beard, reading over the notepad thoughtfully. That’s an excellent question. We don’t often see a healthy young man, such as yourself, experiencing what you did without some kind of predisposed condition or head trauma, which leads me to believe it’s nothing physical, per se.

I perk up. That’s good, right?

Perhaps, yes, he offers sympathetically. But I have called in another doctor to have him conduct his own assessment. And if he agrees with me, and we determine the diagnosis, we can get you discharged tomorrow. But it may require medication and continued treatment.

My brows furrow indignantly. Treatment? You just said it’s not physical…

He tucks the tablet against his chest inside his crossed arms, the gaps in his lab coat sleeves flapping to imitate angel wings. Mr. Forester…Zeke… I don’t believe your collapse tonight was a result of any physical ailment or injury. Based on what I saw in the video footage and what you described feeling before the collapse with the heaviness in your chest, the lightheadedness, the difficulty breathing, I think it’s very possible you may have suffered a severe anxiety attack that caused you to lose consciousness and black out.

He smiles tightly as I gape at him in horror.

Seriously? Are you suggesting it’s all in my head?

Dr. Harmon chuckles and shakes his head. Well, to some extent, yes. I am referring to your mental health and your state of mind. If our on-call psychiatrist, after his assessment and evaluation, agrees with me, then we’ll get you started on some anti-anxiety medications and proposed therapy. From there, you should be fine.

With a reassuring pat on my hand, he nods his head and strides out of the room, leaving me with more unanswered questions and a seething anger brewing inside me.

This doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And I am not going to talk to a quack.

Because I’m Zeke Forester, Pilots’ basketball player and NBA All-Star. And I do not suffer from anxiety.

And I certainly don’t need therapy, thank you very much.

ONE

Zeke

I impatiently flip through the pages of a worn-out coffee table magazine. It’s a Men’s Health issue from two months ago, featuring a cover photo of my former teammate, Brady Collins, promoting his new protein powder and supplement line, as well as his new lease on life post-basketball career.

I scoff irritably, sneering at the man smiling back at me like his shit don’t stink. I toss the wrinkled copy back on the stack. That douchey son-of-a-bitch was once the biggest cheater and dirty player in the league. It wasn’t until he got caught using steroids and drugs, and his wife kicked his cheating ass out of their house, that he finally checked into rehab and sought help.

Now he’s the poster boy for clean and sober living, hawking his line of healthy supplements.

Well, excuse me for not giving a shit.

But it seems I’ve now taken his spot on the NBA’s latest fuck-up roster.

I lean back in the lobby chair to rest my head, staring forward at the wall covered in artwork. My lids grow heavy and close on their own accord, the warmth of the office lulling me to sleep. After the bender I went on this past week, I’m due for a nice long nap. My body doesn’t quite recover like it once did back in my twenties.

Now it feels like I’m covered in cement and I’m trudging through the muck.

In fact, if anyone asked me what I did this past weekend, I’d have to make up a story because it’s all a blank after the game we played at home against Houston. Surprisingly, I scored a triple double even with the killer hangover.

For me, it’s the only thing keeping me going most days and fuels my will to live. Outside of basketball, my life is meaningless, and I’m doing a great job of wasting it.

Like this weekend, when I’d gone out clubbing with some of the guys from the team. I’d had a pretty bad episode before the game—sweating profusely, trouble breathing, the shakes—all the things the psychiatrist indicated were symptoms of an anxiety attack. But instead of taking those meds they prescribed which make me feel foggy, I decided to drown it after the game with booze and my own combination of recreational drugs.

At some point, I ended up blacking out again and when I came to, I couldn’t remember what happened. But the world knew what transpired because, when I woke up the next morning, my bender was splashed all over the headlines.

Bad Boy NBA Player, Zeke Forester, Arrested

I was arrested for public intoxication after getting in a fight with a guy at the club who, according to my teammates, had gotten in my face and taunted me to the point where I lost control and knocked him to the ground with a left hook. Under normal circumstances, when I’m not drunk, I can handle those situations. But this time, fueled by post-game adrenaline, my irritable mood, and the substances in my system, I went off the rails.

I rub at my temple to ward off the headache that’s been brewing all day, regardless of the painkillers and copious amounts of coffee I drank earlier. And the whiskey chasers I had on top of that.

The incessant ache never goes away no matter what I do to get rid of it.

I’ve pushed my body to my physical limits, exceeded what one man can endure physically, but nothing has helped to ease the constant suffocating weight crushing me day in and day out. And the quack-nonsense those doctors tried to shove down my throat about it being a mental health problem was quickly ignored. I wasn’t crazy or looney. I could handle this on my own without their damn meds and psychological bullshit.

Unfortunately, while I did a good job ignoring my problems, Marek Talbert, the Pilots’ GM, was done with me. He’d called me into his office that day after my arrest and subsequent release on my own recognizance and gave me the third degree. He’d had enough and sat me down to deliver an ultimatum. He saw through my antics. He said he wasn’t going to stand by and watch me destroy my career and myself in the process.

I can’t turn a blind eye and watch you continue to slowly kill yourself, Zeke.

Honestly, I’d been expecting to be fired and thrown out on the streets. But instead, Marek gave me one last chance.

You’re too good and have come too far to crumble under the weight of your personal demons like this.

I snickered at the word demons because he was being overdramatic. And I told him so.

I’m fine, Marek. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re overreacting. It was just a small incident. I waved my hand in the air like it was nothing.

He crossed his arms, face composed, but I got a glimmer of a sad look in his eyes. Like a disappointed parent.

I guess I’m wrong, then. I thought you’d hit your rock bottom. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to wait for that to happen and I’m giving you a choice. Here’s what’s going to happen.

I’ve got to hand it to the guy. I was fucking pissed as hell and threw a hurricane-sized tantrum over the stipulations he decreed. He calmly laid out the plan. If I didn’t seek treatment, I was done. There’d be no more basketball. No more games. No more playoffs. Nothing left for me to do.

He hit me where he knew it would hurt.

Basketball is my life. It’s the only thing I’m good at. The only reason I’m still here.

I don’t blame Marek for giving me that ultimatum. I know he cares deeply for his team and players. They always come first for him, even before the money, the game, or the fans. Marek is nothing like our previous GM, who would’ve turned a blind eye to my behavior as long as I was putting up the boards and scoring on the court.

But Marek finally said enough was enough. He was done with my irritability, mood swings, late to practice habits, and my bullshit.

Marek laid down the law that day. If I wanted to stay on the team, I had to begin therapy with Dr. Kendall Rush, a recommended sports psychologist who was endorsed by the team. He said Dr. Rush was the best in the business and would help me deal effectively with my mental health.

A shrink. Really?

I didn’t want to play stupid shrinky-dink games. The ones where the snooty-nosed, entitled doctors made you wait in their fancy lobbies, increasing your blood pressure and anxiety levels, all so they can label it an anxiety condition. Then they prescribe you drugs that won’t make you better so they can get their financial kickbacks from the pharmaceutical companies.

Drugs for depression.

Pills for social anxiety.

For stress.

For sleep.

It’s a never-ending list of prescriptions. I don’t want to live every day like a zombie, numb to pleasure, with no sex drive or ambition, feeling like a failure because I can’t cope with life. A life that’s blessed and richly undeserved.

I had no leverage and no wiggle room to negotiate with Marek. Even Marvin Spurlock, the team’s owner, agreed with Marek. There was nothing I could do to get out of it.

Seeing Dr. Kendall Rush is part of the agreement I conceded to after Marek and Marvin’s intervention and the only way I can remain on the team.

The only reason I don’t say fuck it and walk away is that I love this game too much. It’s all I’ve ever known. What would be left for me? I’m thirty-three and have played professionally for ten years. That’s a lifetime. And this game isn’t kind to veterans, not when there’s an ocean full of nineteen- and twenty-year-old kids out there who play college ball for a year and then draft to the pros.

No team in their right mind would pick up a guy like me over a young, eager player. Especially knowing I could suffer a mental breakdown at any moment. What team wants this mess on their hands?

So here I am, waiting to attend my first of fifteen sessions with a psychotherapist, Dr. Rush, who will assess my mental stability and fortitude and report back to Marek whether I’m redeemable.

The team is probably just using this as a formality for liability purposes, a way for them to wipe their hands free of me and end my contract if I don’t comply. Whatever. I’ll do it and get it over with and prove to them I’m not crazy and I’m not a major headcase.

Had it not been for my buddy Carver, I would be far less eager to be here. But when I mentioned Marek’s requirement of me, Carver shared that he, too, has attended checkups with Dr. Rush to help him deal with some things from his past. He swears that therapy has made him a better player, husband, and father.

Picking up my phone, I check the time and grit my teeth.

What is it with these fucking arrogant, privileged doctors? Who the hell do they think they are to keep people waiting for so goddamn long?

I sigh, eying a hard-covered book sitting on the coffee table. I lean over and pick up the copy.

The Rush Method by Dr. Kendall Rush.

I flip it over in my hands and blink a few times.

Well, fuck me. What do you know?

Dr. Rush is a woman.

A fucking hot one, too. Wavy copper-red hair that hangs past her shoulders, a pair of red-rimmed glasses to match her lips, and a smile that gives off a sexy librarian vibe. My dick perks up as I imagine her unbuttoning that crisp white blouse of hers, licking her lips, and spreading her legs…

Like a needle scratching over a vinyl record, the sound of the receptionist’s voice calling out my name has my head popping up with a guilty smile.

Mr. Forester, Dr. Rush will see you now.

Well, I hope Dr. Rush is ready for me.

Let the shrink games begin.

TWO

Kendall

Hello, Mr. Forester. Please, take a seat wherever you’re most comfortable.

I exchange a cordial handshake with my new client, Zeke Forester, ignoring the zing that sizzles through my palm upon contact with his rough bear-sized hand. A flash of irritation sparks in his eyes, but is overshadowed by his handsome broodiness.

Zeke is obviously tall, considering his profession, but appears to possess a defiant, and maybe even dangerous, presence that only serves to intrigue me more. It gives me a quiver of excitement when I’m faced with a challenging client. And from what I’ve read of Zeke Forester, he’s caused his fair share of trouble.

Shaking my thoughts free, I gesture toward a pair of chairs reserved for my clients.

I carefully observe as he eyes the two styles of seats and chooses the one that reclines.

He sinks into the chair, crossing one of his feet over his ankle, as if he’s casually waiting on me to hand him a beer or a drink. I take the leather chair opposite of him and cross my legs.

You can call me Zeke. What should I call you? Your book out there—he hooks a thumb toward the lobby door—claims you have a lot of fancy titles and degrees.

I chuckle at his comment. "I do, but in here you can call me Kendall. I think you’ll come to find out I’m not too caught up in titles, but