Los Angeles | 2011
Dr. Rhoades' POV
The familiar chime on my computer signaled the start of my next session. Bradley Naird. A fascinating case. I adjusted my notes as the door opened and the boy walked in, carrying himself with that usual air of quiet, controlled intensity.
"How have you been, Bradley? How was your summer?" I asked, gesturing to the armchair he always chose.
Over the past year, I had come to learn much about the boy. He was mature beyond his years in his thinking yet possessed a startling naïveté and emotional distance when it came to interpersonal dynamics. Our sessions had revealed layers upon layers – the fierce competitor, the strategic thinker, the loyal friend, the surprisingly vulnerable core he guarded so fiercely. Bradley, just like everyone, was a complicated person, yet he tried very hard to keep things uncomplicated, imposing a rigid, logical structure onto the messy reality of human emotion. When that structure inevitably failed, he reacted just the same as anybody: emotionally, and at times violently, though never unto others, only unto himself.
"Oh, you know how it's been, Doc. I told you I was gonna go meet my cousins, just like last year. It was fun," he recited, his description deliberately limited, offering the bare minimum information required. Classic Bradley.
"And what was it like, seeing your cousins again?" I prodded gently.
"It was good. I think I'm beginning to form a more lasting bond with them that previously wasn't there. Going to meet them every year helps. Social media helps too," he said, a more genuine, less guarded response. Progress.
"What about your grandfather? How is he?"
At that, his expression turned somber, just for a fraction of a second, before he reigned his emotions in again. The control was remarkable. "He seems to be entering his last stages, I believe," Bradley said hesitantly. "I—I don't think he will live to see the next year."
"I see. It must be disconcerting to see someone close to you about to pass away?" I asked, leading him gently toward the emotional core.
"It's alright," Bradley said, but with a strange conviction that belied the typical grief response. "He has lived a long life, a full life. I personally don't want him rotting away on that medical bed when he could just pass on and maybe look forward to what comes next." The phrase "what comes next" was delivered with an unusual certainty.
"You believe in the afterlife?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral, without judgment.
"I do," he said again, with the same conviction. Unwavering.
"Can I ask how you came to believe in it so firmly?"
He seemed to ponder on that question for a while, the silence settling between us comfortably. "Uhm, I have dreams, Doc," he began, his gaze distant. "Of ethereal things. Things that couldn't be real but feel real to me. In these dreams, I experience a world that shouldn't exist. I just came to accept the fact that maybe our dreams are the world we enter once we fall into the eternal sleep." He then looked directly at me, his eyes sharp and analytical again, before he chuckled. "Besides, it's easier to accept that there is more after the end than to accept that there is nothing. I believe it's my coping mechanism, psychologically speaking," he ended, with a cheeky grin.
Ah, there it was. The self-aware deflection. Framing his belief system as a logical construct to manage existential dread. Fascinating.
A smile bloomed on my own face at that. "Yes, I believe it is a coping mechanism," I agreed. "But just because it is, who is to say that what you think isn't the truth?"
"Yeah, you're right, those who know can never tell us," he added, his eyes almost twinkling with a morbid understanding that was characteristic of him.
"When the time does come, I hope you and I can continue this conversation," I told him gently.
"Can't really say I look forward to it, but sure, Doc, we will talk about it when we do," he added, the macabre humor a familiar deflection.
"Let us move on to the things you've been looking forward to then," I said, shifting the focus. "High School. A most daunting period for young adults."
His posture changed instantly, the somber reflection replaced by a familiar, sharp energy. "Oh yeah, I'm starting classes at Palisades High School in a few days. I'm looking forward to it, especially because I get a challenge at last over here," he said, his tone excited.
I looked at him questioningly for the statement, knowing Palisades' reputation.
He took that as a sign to continue. "Well, Palisades has, quite frankly, a trash basketball program. I mean that. Most people, including the parents, don't even know that they have a basketball team. I'm going to take it over and rebuild all of it from scratch," he said with absolute confidence.
"That's an ambitious goal right off the bat," I said, a touch admiringly. Bradley always needed a mountain to climb.
"How do you plan to go about it?" I asked.
"Oh, I've already started, Doc. My team from junior high is gonna go to Palisades as well, so the human resources issue is sorted." Smart. Leveraging existing loyalty. "With regards to the coach, I'm thinking of convincing my junior high coach to join the high school, and if that doesn't work out... then to be coach myself."
When he said the latter part, I raised a skeptical eye.
"I know, I know, it's overambitious, but I believe I can do it," he insisted.
"What if the current coach refuses to budge?" I asked, probing the potential obstacle.
Bradley's expression became cold at that. The shift was jarring. "There are alternatives to that. He will be convinced. One way or the other."
There it was. The side of Bradley Naird that scared me at times. The unrelenting, dispassionate, almost ruthless persona that viewed obstacles not as challenges to navigate, but as targets to eliminate. It only ever fully emerged when he spoke of basketball, his primary obsession, but elements of it were laced around all aspects of his life.
"We discussed this, Bradley," I reminded him gently but firmly. "Not everyone who doesn't follow the path you have in mind is an enemy of yours. People just have different goals based on their own life experiences."
He seemed to listen, his expression lightening slightly as he processed my words. "I know, Doc, but it's just so much easier to brute force things and make them see it my way, you know?" he said, almost pleading for understanding.
"I understand that son, but as we discussed before, it will lead to tension, and that, when built up over time, will lead to resistance against you. In the end, these forces will compound and pull you away from the joy of the game," I pressed the importance of this on him.
"I see it, Doc," he conceded, "and I have even tried it in real life, and you're right. The way of explaining and understanding does seem better, but it takes far too much time to generate results."
"Time that you have plenty of," I countered softly. "You're fourteen, Bradley. It might seem to you that time is running out, but the reality is that you have it in spades. In reality, I'm the man who doesn't have much time left." I leaned forward, ensuring he understood the gravity. "I understand your urgency, and I'm not telling you not to pursue your goals. I'm just asking you to look at different approaches and give those a chance as well."
I watched him process my words, the slight furrow in his brow indicating he was taking them seriously. He sighed, the sharp edge of his earlier ambition softening into something more thoughtful.
"I will, Doc. I will," he conceded. "It's just... I wanted to express that part. I know I won't resort to it all the time, but talking about it helps me vent, you know?" He looked up, his expression surprisingly vulnerable. "Also, you're the only person who listens to me on these things. Not like Mom and Dad, or even Alex at times."
Ah. An opening. I raised an eye at that. "How is your relationship holding up?"
His mood uplifted almost instantly, a genuine warmth returning to his features. "Oh, it's going great. Alex and I have been on many dates now, and she is also taking interest in things that I like, while I do the same for her." Then, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. "Sometimes, though, we face problems. Like, the other day, she told me that she was going to start attending Krav Maga classes this year. When I told her I'd do it too, she vehemently denied me. She said that we should have activities that both of us can do separate from one another."
"And how did you feel about that?" I asked gently, knowing where this was headed. His core difficulty wasn't ambition; it was navigating the emotional complexities of connection.
"I felt kinda blindsided by it," he admitted sadly. "I mean, I understand the importance of us doing things away from one another, but just the intensity with which she told me no... I felt kinda hurt by that."
"Did you express your hurt to her then?" I prodded.
"No," he mumbled, not meeting my eye. "I just couldn't. I felt that if I whined about something so small, what kind of a person would I be then? I accepted it and let it go."
"Did you let it go, Bradley? Or did you bottle it up?" I asked, keeping my tone even. "I can see that you're not fully at terms with what happened."
He looked up then, hurt written plainly in his gaze. "I—I..." He sighed. "Yeah, I kept it to myself. I just feel that if I pick a fight or address every little thing that stings or hurts me, then we would be fighting all the time. That's not productive or healthy for a relationship."
"You're partially correct," I acknowledged. "Unnecessary conflict is detrimental. But the more important factor is communicating. Not every conversation will turn into a fight if you choose your words wisely and express yourself properly. It's only when we give in to blind emotion that we lose ourselves." I leaned forward, offering a practical tool. "Next time, or whenever you do decide to talk to Alex about this, I want you to write it all down on a sheet of paper first. Write out the way you would talk to her without wanting it to turn into a fight. Then, when you guys do talk, use that sheet to center yourself and prevent yourself from being flooded with emotions."
He looked thoughtful as he considered the strategy. Finally, he gave a slow nod. "I'll keep that in mind, Doc."
"Good. Communication is key, especially as you navigate these more complex teenage relationships," I affirmed. "Now, shifting slightly, how have things been with your parents since our discussions? Has their approach changed at all?"
He considered this. "Yeah, I think so. Mom especially. She... asks more questions now. Tries to understand the 'why' behind things, not just the 'what.' Dad is still Dad," he said with a small smile. "He trusts me to handle my business, but I can tell he's watching, maybe a little closer than before. He even tried talking to me about empathy after a game once. It was... awkward, but I appreciated it."
"And Erin?" I inquired. "Still your 'whirlwind'?"
A genuine, fond laugh escaped him. "More than ever. She's fully embraced the ninja way thanks to Naruto. Our house is constantly under siege by shadow clones made of couch cushions. But..." He paused, his expression softening. "It's good. She forces me to step outside the game sometimes. Reminds me there's more to life than just the court."
The familiar chime indicating the end of our session sounded softly from my computer. I closed my notepad.
"Well, Bradley," I said, standing up and extending my hand. "Another productive session. You continue to make good progress. Your self-awareness is remarkable."
He stood and shook my hand firmly. "Thanks, Doc. For your time."
"Farewell, Bradley," I said as he turned and left the office.
I sat calmly in my office chair, watching him go. Then, I picked up my pen and began going through my notes of the session. Remarkable progress indeed. The rigid control was still there, the ambition still burned fiercely, but beneath it, a new layer of emotional intelligence was beginning to form. He was learning to integrate, not just dominate. It was a fascinating, and hopeful evolution.
I finished reviewing my notes on Bradley, he needed ongoing guidance. I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking softly, and my gaze drifted out the window towards the hazy afternoon skyline.
My thoughts turned, unexpectedly, to another young man I had worked with years ago. A sharp kid, full of raw, untamed energy and a desperate need for direction. Jimmy. He'd been a mentee back when I was still juggling a heavier caseload, before I started winding things down. He was practicing now, doing quite well for himself from what I heard – a "wealthy position" at a high-profile firm, if the grapevine was accurate.
I briefly entertained the thought, as I sometimes did when feeling the weight of my years, of reaching out, perhaps hiring him. Bringing some young blood into this quiet, semi-retirement office. But then I decided against it, almost immediately. Why would a successful young therapist want to leave the fast track to come work with an old man in a practice like this? The kid would not want to work with me right now. He was building his own legacy.
I chuckled to myself, shaking my head at the fleeting notion. "Some other day in the future, maybe," I murmured to the empty room. For now, I had more than enough fascinating work right here.