Sin-bin

Chapter 1 - Marcial

Despite having sat in this waiting room twice or more a week for nearly six weeks, I still feel like everyone's eyes are on me. I'm in a ball cap pulled down to my fucking eyebrows, a mask, and absolutely no hockey merch. Realistically, if anyone is looking at me, it's because I look like a fucking predator, not a hockey player. 

Shelia's private office is situated in a larger counseling/mental health office, so there are usually a few people sitting in the waiting room when I'm here. I whisper my name to the secretary, and she tells Shelia that I'm here. Until she comes out to get me, though, I have to sit in an uncomfortable chair, staring at the stack of magazines that have not changed in all the time I've seen Shelia. 

It's not necessarily that I think I'll get noticed. Hockey players are not a hot commodity in the lower States, including Colorado, so it's extremely unlikely that someone sitting here for services is like, "Oh my God! Are you Marcial Bacques? Aren't you in the assistant program for undisclosed issues but likely mental determination? How funny is it to see you here!" So, logistically, I shouldn't be concerned. But I am. It's been reiterated to me that I should try to keep an extremely low profile while I'm in the program. It won't benefit anyone if I'm caught while taking time off from the ice. 

But also, if there is a slim chance that someone will notice me, I don't want to risk it. I don't know if I would say I'm embarrassed to be seeing a therapist but more embarrassed that I fell apart in the first place. I can barely look my teammates in the eye because they know why I'm not in the lineup. It's fucking embarrassing. Professional hockey player, rising alcoholic, and has lingering issues with his childhood. The headlines taunt me in my sleep. 

"Marcial?" I snap my head up at the sound of my name. Shelia leans against the hallway wall, smiling encouragingly at me like she always does. I jump from my seat and eagerly follow her back to her dimly lit office, "How are you today?"

"Good." It's the response I give pretty much every single time she asks. 

Shelia's office is the size of a decently sized bathroom. The walls are painted darkly, and she usually has the blinds closed. For lighting, she relies on a series of lamps that must take for-fucking-ever to turn on in the morning. She usually has some kind of incense burning, and most of the time, it doesn't smell great. Somehow, she has managed to stuff quite a bit of furniture into her bathroom office. Her desk is set against the far wall and usually covered in papers. Against the opposite wall is a small bookshelf full of psychological and therapy books and even a meditation book. For seating, she has one large and cushy tan chair, and across from it, a navy couch with too many throw pillows. She told me in the beginning that I could sit wherever I wanted, but it's pretty obvious, to me at least, that the patient is supposed to sit on the couch, and she gets the comfy chair because this is her job all day long. 

I toss my body onto the navy couch and rearrange the throw pillows around me. Shelia sits across from me with the clipboard. She has to take notes on what I say or something. After meeting so much these past weeks, our routine is pretty solidified. 

"So, what did you do the past couple of days?" 

She usually opens with this because, after the first handful of times, it was made evident that I was not going to start the session. I think it's kind of stupid that she asks that because my life doesn't change at all, let alone over a couple of days. But I have to say something, or she just stares at me in awkward silence. 

"Well, I went to morning skate yesterday. I went and got a fancy smoothie that was really good. I went to the psychiatrist again. Now that I've been on Lexapro for a little bit and don't have any side effects, she wants to add a small dose of...gaba—gabapentin? Is that what it's called?"