“Fine,” I said, my gaze stopping on a row of bobbleheads on one of his bookshelves. “You like the Avengers?”
“Yes, how about you?”
“Some people say I look like Thor.”
David smiled. “I can definitely see why.”
I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable. David seemed nice, but I wasn’t used to being around anyone like him. He was a middle-aged Chinese man about half my size who had told me at the start of our session that he’d never watched a hockey game. His office was full of plants and oversized, but comfortable chairs. A small fountain gurgled in one corner of the room. The room offered a soothing vibe, but I was off balance here. I was used to being around athletes who often communicated in grunts and profanity.
“Do you like being alone, or do you prefer to be in the company of others?” he asked.
“Both.” I looked over at the clock on his wall, wanting to speed things along. “Do I have autism?”
“I don’t know.”
I scowled. “I thought this was your job, to tell people what is wrong with them.”
“Well, Lars, I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with you. There might be things you struggle with, but that’s true for most people.”
“What do you struggle with?”
“We’re here to talk about you, Lars, not me.”
I sat up straight in my chair, giving him my most imposing glare.
“So I don’t have autism?”
David smiled. “You may. It will take several sessions and some testing for me to tell you more about that. It’s important to remember, too, that autism spectrum disorder affects people differently. There’s no one-size-fits-all diagnosis or treatment plan.”
“I want to know.” I rapidly tapped my fingertip against the arm of the chair I was sitting in. “I will pay extra to find out fast.”
“Can I get you some water?” David asked.
“No, I am fine.”
He cleared his throat and paused before speaking again.
“It’s going to take some time, Lars,” he said. “And whether or not you fit the criteria for an autism diagnosis, I’m more interested in how you’re feeling overall. You said at the beginning of this session that you suspect you have autism. Can you tell me more about that?”
My armpits were sweaty and I couldn’t seem to stop tapping my finger. I imagined that I was about to skate out onto freshly resurfaced ice, stick in hand, but it only calmed me a little.
“I do not like talking,” I said.
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes…it is hard to know what to say.”
“Is that an uncomfortable feeling for you? Talking to someone one-on-one?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes that is easier for me than lots of people listening.”
David nodded. “Sure. So it’s easier when there’s just one person?”
“Yes. As long as that person is not a reporter.”
He smiled. “I hadn’t even considered that. Tell me about what makes you feel pressured. What situations do you find yourself in that you wish you could just escape from?”
I tried to think about what really bothered me before answering. “Questions. How do I feel, what do I think…whether the questions are about hockey or me or anything else does not matter.”
“And what situations make you feel most comfortable?”
“Being alone. Being with Sheridan. Being with my teammates, other than the newest one. He is a dick.”
David wrote something on the notebook he was holding in his lap, and I wondered what it was. I didn’t like being analyzed. I’d thought I could come in here, pay this psychiatrist and get a diagnosis, but so far it wasn’t like that at all. I was planning to bitch Nash out later for talking me into doing this.
“My other teammates think Sawyer is a dick, too. That is not just me. Did you write that down?”
“Nope.” David turned his notebook toward me so I could read it. “I wrote down the people you feel most comfortable with. But why do you feel the way you do about this new teammate?”
“He does not smile. He is not friendly.”
“When we started this session, you told me people thought you weren’t friendly. Is that true?”
I thought about it, and…shit. He was right. The things my teammates and I disliked about Sawyer, like his attitude and how he interacted with us, sounded a lot like me. He was cold, abrupt, and disinterested in getting to know anyone.
“It is true,” I admitted. “Acting friendly is…for me, it is…” I sighed, frustrated. “I don’t know the English word.”
“Would you say it feels unnatural?”
“Yes. I am bad at what Americans call chitchat. And I do not want to get better at it. I think it is okay to have quiet.”
“So if someone said they didn’t like you because you aren’t friendly, how would you feel about that?”
“Fine. I do not need everyone to like me.”
I stood up, unable to just sit and talk any longer. I walked over to one of the bookcases along the wall so I could look at something other than David. He kept talking while I took in the books and trinkets lining the shelves.