Golden [ #2 EFS ] ✓

Matchweek Two: Chelsea vs. Liverpool

Trent's pov

Are they kidding me? Therapy is the last thing I need. I don't want to talk about my emotions to some random stranger. How would I even know to trust this person? They could sell whatever they get from me for their own five minutes of fame. I don't want to agree to this but I don't have a choice. I can either swallow my pride and go to therapy or get permanently put on the bench.

They claim that I am unstable and a danger to myself and my teammates. I think that I'm doing fine. I'm not as depressed as I was in the first few days. I'm making progress on my own. I don't need someone's help. I have my first meeting with my therapist today and they refuse to tell me anything. I know her name is Dr Witmoore. It's on the card that Tyler gave me.

I pace in my spare room, thinking of a way to get out of this. I've never been good at expressing my emotions and therapy is only going to make things worse. I have to make a choice. My career or my love life. A few months ago I would have chosen my love life, but now it's non-existent so there is no point in worrying about it. I don't have anything to lose by going to therapy, besides my pride, and the therapist could be an inside source for the EA. I mean, weren't they the ones that recommended her?

I grab my phone from my kitchen countertop. It's all over the news that I am now going to be attending therapy. I want to know who this inside source is. If he is so brave why doesn't he just show himself? I also can't help but wonder who is trying to ruin my public image. Who is out to get me that they would tell the whole world about my personal issues?

The drive to the place is short. The office is not far from my apartment but it's also in the more shady part of town. I've been to this neighbourhood a couple of times, but I've never been here for long. Michelle never liked me coming here. She claimed it was too dangerous for a famous football player.

I park the car outside the building. It looks newer and posher than the other. The interior is neat with leather chairs lining the room. The receptionist, a rather old welcoming lady, catches my attention. Her wrinkly face pulls upwards when she smiles and her eyes seem to light up.

"You must be Trent Alexander Arnold, the last appointment of the day?" She asks in her sweet old lady voice.

"Yes, ma'am," I answer respectfully.

"Miss Witmoore will see you just now. She just has to finish up her last session. You are welcome to take a seat and wait."

I nod to her before seating myself in a seat that's closer to the door, in case I need to make a quick escape. I'm tempted to pull one of the home magazines off the small side table and read it but I restrain myself. I don't want people to think that I want to be here, because I don't. I think that I am more than capable of handling this myself.

In ten minutes or so, a teenage boy, maybe around seventeen, walks down the spiral stairs with a grateful smile on his face. Behind him is another girl, with platinum blonde hair, pulled back into a loose bun, with a few strands cupping her face. Her messy bun looks perfect, and not like she spent hours trying to perfect it. She looks like she just didn't care about how it looked. Her oval-shaped face compliments her bright green eyes and thick, pink lips. She has her hands tucked into her formal pants pockets as she stands on the second last step and watches the boy go.

Wait, she can't possibly be the therapist? She's so young.

"Edith, I'm ready for the next one," she calls out to the receptionist, who nods to me.

Her green eyes fall on me and they momentarily widen. She seems shocked; maybe she was not aware that I'm her five ó clock appointment, and apparently her last one too. She quickly recovers from her shock with a warm smile that seems a little fake.