Page 157 of Scoring the Player

“Demons”

I envy the lonely, all that empty space.

“Arnaz?” My therapist frowns. “Can you tell me if you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm?”

Eight points, one assist, and no rebounds.

Why didn’t I rebound?

I release a long yawn.

Thirty-two minutes past six, only eighteen minutes left.

Eight points. Pitiful.

I wince from the burn in my throat. “I keep tasting vodka.”

“Thanks for letting me know. Let’s address that in a moment. Can you tell me if you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm?”

“Just vodka.”

“Thank you.” She scrawls something down. “Okay, you said you taste it all the time?”

“Yeah.”

“If I recall correctly”—she scans the screen of her tablet—“that was your father’s drink of choice.”

Four fouls. Three were my bad, but the fourth was definitely a bad call.

“Coach benched me for the second half yesterday.”

She observes me in silence before replying, “He did? Can we hold that thought for one second?”

I nod.

“The vodka. Do you think it’s related to your college coach joining your current team’s coaching staff?”

I shrug, crossing my arms.

“That’s okay. If there is a connection, it may not be obvious. We can go slowly. Coach benched you for the second half of the game. How did that make you feel?”

Every time I swallow, it burns.

“I keep chewing these tea tree toothpicks.” I pull the one I’m gnawing on out of my mouth and hold it up to her. “Sthyyll vaahd-kuh,” I say on a yawn.

“Hmm.” She angles her head. “When did this start?”

He said he felt it too back in college. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

“It makes me feel sick. I hate the taste.”

“Arnaz, may I share an observation with you?”

Why does every hotel room have generic art? Ocean views, mountains, clouds…

“May I?” she asks.

Vodka burns worse than salt water.