The phrase hits me like cold water. Professional boundaries. Like I'm just another client. Just another guy.
"Is that what you tell yourself?" The words come out sharper than I intended. "That I'm just another hockey player with anger issues?"
"No, of course not?—"
"Or maybe I'm just a good fuck. Something exciting to break up the monotony of your perfectly controlled life."
Her face pales. I know I've gone too far, but I can't stop the words tumbling out.
"Is that it? Are you slumming it with the problem child before you move on to someone who actually fits into your neat and tidy world?"
"Stop." Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Why? Too close to the truth?" And then I continue digging this hole but I can’t stop. "What happens when you've had your fill? When you've gotten bored of playing therapist to my fucked-up psyche?"
"That's enough." Her words are sharp now, eyes flashing. "You don't get to project your insecurities onto me just because you're afraid of what you're feeling."
Her words hit like a physical blow.
"What I'm feeling?" I laugh, the sound hollow. "What I'm feeling is used, Elena. You fuck me, then you analyze me, then you tell me we need 'professional boundaries.' Which is it? Am I your client or your boy toy?"
She flinches like I've slapped her. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us electric with hurt and anger.
Then she walks to the door and yanks it open. "We're done for today."
"Running away, huh?" The words come out mean, ugly. "Well, that’s certainly notprofessional."
She doesn't look at me. "I need you to leave my office."
"It's not time yet." I glance at the clock. "We've got fifteen minutes."
"Leave now."
When I don't move, she does something that shocks me—she walks out, leaving me alone in her office.
I stand there, stunned, the weight of what just happened crashing down on me. I pushed too hard, let my fear and insecurity turn into weapons I aimed directly at her.
"Fuck." I drop back into the chair, head in my hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The burn of self-loathing rises in my throat. This is what I do—push people away before they can hurt me. Elena saw it, called it out, and I proved her right in the most spectacular way possible.
I hear footsteps in the hallway, conversations between players and staff. I need to get out of this office. Immediately.
I stand, moving to the door. I should find her, apologize, try to explain that I didn't mean it. That telling her about Teddy left me raw in a way I haven't felt since I was six years old.
But what would be the point? She deserves better than my bullshit.
I walk out, closing her office door behind me. Another bridge burned. Another person pushed away.
Later that evening, I lay on the couch staring at the ceiling of my apartment, a bottle of Don Julio untouched on the coffee table. I thought about getting drunk, drowning out the memory of Elena's face when I said those things to her. But I know alcohol won't fix this. Won't erase the look in her eyes.
My phone sits dark and silent beside the bottle. I've typed and deleted a dozen messages to her, none of them good enough.
Eight o'clock turns to nine. I can't stop replaying our conversation, can't stop hearing my own voice hurling accusations.
"Fuck this." I stand abruptly, grabbing my keys and jacket.
The night air hits my face, as I walk to the Palmer House Hotel, rehearsing what I’ll say when I get there. None of it sounds right though.
