Chapter 27: Santos

"Hey, how ya doing, Santos?"

"I'm doing okay, thanks."

Shaking my therapist's hand, a genuine smile crosses my face. I've been seeing Justin for a couple of weeks now, and therapy hasn't been at all like I thought it would be.

I envisioned a stuffy old man making me lay on a couch while he holds a clipboard and asks me about my mother. Justin, however, is anything but a stuffy old man. Just a couple years older than me, he comes to work wearing jeans and sneakers. He's got scruff on his face and doesn't even have a desk to sit behind. His office looks more like a living room with a couch and a couple recliners. The only indication it's a therapy office at all is the bookshelf full of reference material.

We talk for a few minutes about my latest game and what the chances are we'll win the title this year. Turns out Justin isn't a fan of soccer, but he's been to an occasional game. Most people in Houston have, even if it's just to say they've gone.