Van whistled to Grom, who trotted up onto the deck and sat at his feet. “Then let’s begin.”
A new set of nerves kicked in. And they were all related to the pressure put on her by her father. She needed this to work. “Okay, I’ll just go upstairs and get my notebook, and I’ll meet you in the living room.”
He squinted at her. “No walking?”
“Yes, we’ll be walking, but this rehab isn’t just about repairing you physically. It’s about your mental and emotional state as well. The League wants you whole in every way.”
He snorted. “I do not recall the League ever being interested in much more than whether or not I would make weigh-in.”
She knew that was essentially true. She shrugged and dug deep for a plausible explanation. “You’re a very valuable member of the team. They really consider you the face of the organization, and they’re just concerned about you. That’s why I’m here, after all.”
“Very interesting.”
She had no idea how to take that. Did he think she was lying? Supposedly, her father had bribed all the right officials so that if Van called to check up on her, they’d agree she was here on League-approved business. Supposedly. But then, her father was pretty good about covering his backside in these kinds of dealings, and there was no way he’d jeopardize his potential payday by not having all possibilities covered.
Knowing that gave her a little boost of courage. “Do you want to talk to my boss?” She pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket. “I’m sure he can explain the process better.”
Van stared at her phone for a second longer than she would have liked before saying, “Let’s just get on with it.”
She almost exhaled in relief. She tucked her phone away and smiled. “See you in the living room.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just hustled back upstairs, grabbed her notebook and the list of questions she’d jotted down, and returned to the main floor.
He was sitting in his big chair, waiting, Grom at his feet.
She lifted her chin. There was no more time to pretend she was a rehab specialist. Now she had to be a rehab specialist. She took a seat on the couch perpendicular to him, flipped open her notebook, and clicked her pen. “All right. Let’s get started.”
He lifted his brows as if to say he was waiting on her.
She read off the first question, pen poised to write. “What would you say is the main thing holding you back?”
That earned her a hard look and a sharp tone. “I was bitten by a manticore.”
She let her pen drop. “Yes, you were. But I’m talking about in the bigger sense of things.”
He frowned. “How much bigger could that be?”
“Let’s try a different question.” She scanned the list. “How would your ideal self create a solution to this?”
His expression didn’t change. “I would not have been bitten.” He hesitated, like he had more to say, finally adding, “What is my ideal self?”
Yeah, what was his ideal self? She really had no idea. “I guess what I’m trying to uncover is how, in a perfect world, would you have avoided the thing that’s holding you back?”
More glaring. “Same answer.”
Okay, this wasn’t working. “Next question.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Here’s one. If your money could talk, what would it say to you?”
He jerked back slightly, a shadow of suspicion clouding his eyes. “Why do you ask about my money?”
“It’s just a question.” She flattened her notebook on her lap. “I’m trying to start a dialogue so I can see where your head’s at and how to help you overcome this…” She didn’t want to say depression, because that wasn’t really the right word. Or was it? “This difficult mental state the injury has put you in.”
He laughed, which was not at all the response she’d expected. “Difficult mental state? I am fine. I am happy. I have my house and my friends and Grom. What else do I need?”
She stared back at him. “Your career, maybe?”
His mood compressed again. “My career is over.”
“Because of one injury?” Forget whatever script she’d been following, this time she had to answer with her gut. “I just can’t believe a guy like you would let one injury take away everything you’ve worked so hard for.”
“Believe it.”
She glanced at her questions again, finding one that fit. “How does that decision square with the man people think you are?”
His mouth opened, then closed. He sat farther back in his chair, gaze darkening. Little shimmers of heat rose off him. “No more questions.”
“You agreed to do this.”
He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell for three breaths before he looked at her again. “Fine. Next.”
“How does your decision to quit square with the man people think you are?”
He looked through her. Past her. And said nothing.
She sighed. “Van, I know these are tough questions, but I’m here to help. And if you can’t talk to me about this, is there someone else you can talk to? Pretending like this injury hasn’t drastically changed your life is just…silly. Of course it’s changed your life. And it’s awful and crushing and probably the worst thing that’s ever happened in your charmed, dragon existence, but maybe, just maybe, if you stop acting like you’re a tough guy who doesn’t need any help, you might find that talking about it makes you feel better.”