MILE HIGH

51

“Someone who’s afraid to lose the image portrayed for him because people love that guy. I don’t know if they’ll love the real guy, and I don’t know if I’m willing to find out.”

“You’ve always been my most honest client, Zee, but you’ve been lying to the entire world about who you are. For someone who never lies, that’s a pretty big one.”

“Eddie,” I awkwardly laugh. “It’s Wednesday morning. Getting pretty heavy for a Wednesday morning.”

“It’s therapy. What did you expect?” Of course, he won’t let me deflect with humor. He knows me better than that.

“Do you want to be loved?”

Damn. He’s hitting with all the hard questions today. I haven’t had enough caffeine for this. Hell, I haven’t had enough whiskey for this.

“I think I took that option off the table for myself a long time ago.”

“Zee, you’re twenty-eight. You could be eighty-eight, and still change directions. Do you want to be loved?”

Silence.

“Do you want to be loved?”

Outside street noises fill the quiet office as I stay mute.

“Zee, do you want to be loved?”

“Yes! Fuck.” Throwing my head back on the couch behind me, I close my eyes, scrubbing my palms over my jawline.

Eddie isn’t a typical therapist, at least not to me. He’s kind of like a life coach at this stage in our relationship, and it’s real f*****g annoying.

But the truth is, I do want to be loved, and that’s scary to admit. It’s a lot easier to say you don’t want to be loved when no one loves you.

“Do you want to be loved for who you are or for who people think you are?”

“For me.”

“Then why haven’t you let anyone know who that is?”

“Because I’m scared.” And there it is. The root of it all. I’m f*****g terrified for my fans or anyone else to see the real me. The persona I’ve worn for the last seven years in the league has signed my massive checks. I’m afraid to lose it. I’m afraid to lose my contract. I’m afraid to be released by the team and city where my best friends live.

My own parents didn’t love the real me enough to stick around. Why would I expect anyone else to?

“Being vulnerable and authentic is scary, man. Terrifying. But to the people who matter to you, the ones you’ve shown your true self to, they love you unconditionally. Why not let others love you unconditionally too? At least give them a chance to.”

Damn, my chest feels tight. And not like a “panic attack” tight, but like a “that hit me like a ton of bricks” and “I know he’s right” kind of tight.

“You’re right.”

“God, that feels good to hear.” Eddie wears a satisfied smile. Smug bastard. “How about this week you work on being your authentic, vulnerable self with someone who only knows the media’s version of EZ and not the real Zee. Maybe your dad?”

“Not my dad.”

“Okay.” Eddie puts his hands up in surrender. “But someone. Someone who thinks they know the real you but has no clue. Show them who you really are.”

“And if they don’t like the real me?”

Eddie ponders a moment. “Then I’ll double my donation to Active Minds, and I’ll donate four sessions a week to your kids instead of just the two I planned on.”

“Deal,” I say quicker than he could take his words back.

If being vulnerable with someone gives me a chance to add four more weekly sessions to the quickly growing hours we’ve gathered from doctors and therapists around the city, then I will.

The clock on the far wall reads ten after the hour. “We went over again.”

Eddie shrugs his shoulders. “You can afford it.”

Standing, we hug each other. As I said before, we’ve been doing this s**t for eight years. Eddie is an integral part of my life and a real friend. He’s family, which is why he calls me by the name the most important people in my life use, and not by the one my parents gave me.

“You’re coming to the gala next month, right?”

Eddie walks me to the office door, opening it. “Of course. I couldn’t be prouder of you and Eli. I remember when you two were just a couple of arrogant little shits in college. Now, look at you.”

“Now, we’re two arrogant grown-ass men.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Black-tie,” I remind Eddie, pointing an accusing finger at him.

The black-tie dress code was my idea. But f**k it. I love having an excuse to dress up. Not to mention, I look fine as hell rocking a tux.

“I’ll send you the bill for that too.”

The small café below Eddie’s office is my typical stop on a Wednesday morning. After our sessions, I’m always drained. I grab my usual black coffee with two sugars and continue the short walk back to my apartment complex.

The late November chill hits me as soon as I walk outside, so I pull my beanie lower to cover my ears. The streets of downtown Chicago are bustling with bodies, needing to get from point A to point B, and thankfully, with the combination of keeping my head down and them being too busy to notice, I go unrecognized.

Turning the corner two blocks from my place, I stop in my tracks, causing the traffic of people to have to move around my body as I take up plenty of space on the sidewalk.

And I’m rooted in place because just ahead, there’s a head full of chestnut curls, though today they’re thrown in a bun with a yellow bandana wrapped around them. Stevie is sitting on the chilly cement curb, knees to her chest and head in her hands.

The amount of space that girl has been occupying in my head lately is a bit concerning. What I thought was going to be a one-night stand has turned into me endlessly hoping for a repeat round, but over the last few weeks and the few short road trips we’ve had since I saw her on delayed Halloween, Stevie has kept her distance.

It’s annoying.

Even from a block away, I can see her back slightly vibrate before she looks up and frantically wipes her cheek.