Hard Limit (St. Louis Mavericks 2)

“I know. Let’s just get through the sale of the company and then he and I are going to have a heart-to-heart.”

“Good luck.”

I wasn’t sure why, but I suddenly felt like I was going to need it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lars

* * *

Mavericks Group Text

Beau: Lars, everything ok?

Lars: Yes.

Beau: My brother’s a police officer, and he told me two officers were on a call involving you.

Lars: I am fine.

Wes: Anything we need to let the PR people know about?

Lars: No.

Wes: Can you give me a little more information?

Lars: I punched someone. He deserved it. I did not get arrested.

Wes: Call me. We need to talk about this.

Lars: I am busy. I will call later.

* * *

“How are you, Lars?” David asked me as he led the way from the waiting room into his office.

“I am fine.”

I wasn’t fine, really. Sheridan was pissed at me and I was at the top of Coach Gizzard’s shit list for almost being arrested. They’d written up a report, but hadn’t actually arrested me. When Sheridan told them her attorney had lodged multiple complaints to the police about Hugh stalking and harassing her, the officers had told Hugh to just go home and not come looking for her again. I had to put all that out of my mind, though, and focus on the reason I was here.

“Have a seat,” David said. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

I shook my head and sat down in the same chair I’d occupied for each of my three sessions with David so far. This was our fourth week, and today was the day I’d been waiting for since the first time I’d called David’s office.

“So tell me what’s been going on with you since we last met,” David said.

“I would rather get right to the results. Do I have autism?”

There was a knot in my stomach as I waited for his answer. I’d spent hours taking tests on computers and even longer answering David’s endless questions. I’d done everything he asked of me and now I had to know.

“We can talk about the results first, but I’d still like to have a regular session with you after we discuss your diagnosis. Would that be okay?”

“Yes.” I squeezed the arm of the chair I was sitting in, bracing myself. “Tell me.”

He took a folder out from behind the clipboard he was holding and cleared his throat.

“I want to preface this discussion by reminding you that autism spectrum disorder is so named because there’s a wide spectrum of how people are affected.”

I leaned forward in my chair and exhaled hard. “What is the answer? Yes or no?”

I couldn’t wait another second. My whole life was hanging in the balance right now, but David didn’t seem to get that. Probably because it wasn’t his life we were talking about.

“Yes, Lars. I believe you have autism spectrum disorder, and you are on the very high-functioning end of the spectrum.”

I buried my face in my hands. Deep down, I’d known. From the first time I’d googled autism and read the list of signs, I’d known I fit the description. But I’d been hoping that somehow, through the sessions I’d had with David, I could somehow convince him I was normal and get the diagnosis I’d hoped for.

“Talk to me, Lars,” David said.

I slid my hands away from my face and looked at him, defeated. “What else is there to say?”

“This diagnosis is just the beginning. We still—”

“The beginning?” I gave him an incredulous look. “This is the end. It is over. I have autism, and there is no cure.”

“What is it the end of?”

David’s neutral tone was fucking offensive. No matter what we were talking about, he was always so deliberately reasonable. Approachable. Detached. Unshockable.

“I would like to piss in your fountain,” I said, glancing at the gurgling water spilling over a rock formation in the corner, before looking back at him.

“Why?”

I sat back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling, groaning in aggravation.

“Why?” I echoed. “If I do piss in your fountain, will you get mad?”

His lips tipped up in a small smile as he said, “No, but I would ask the cleaning service to change the water.”

“What if I pissed on you?”

“Are you feeling angry about this diagnosis, Lars? Because if you are, that’s completely normal.”

“I don’t know. I am feeling…a lot.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Why am I feeling all these things when I have autism? I thought autism meant I had no emotions.”

I felt a twinge of hope that maybe, now that David knew I was having a rush of feelings, he’d reconsider his diagnosis.

“It doesn’t mean that at all. People with autism have the same feelings as everyone else, but they sometimes have trouble expressing them.”

Damn. I felt…beaten, like Keegan had won. It didn’t matter if the world knew about this diagnosis or not—I knew. And I’d never see myself the same way again. I was flawed. Broken. Different. Disabled.