SESSIONS

Session One

The office reeks of lavender and deceit. Dr. Patricia Chen sits across from me in one of those chairs, trying too hard to be non-threatening, like we're sitting for tea instead of enduring these forced therapy sessions I’ve dodged for nearly a year.

Eleven months since I wrote that essay announcing my father’s death, and PRIME decided therapy was their answer to keep liability premiums down.

"Thank you for finally coming in, Rose."

Finally. As if she's been counting the days in this beige purgatory, waiting for me to give up and do what I’ve been ordered to do.

"No real choice," I mutter, my eyes scanning the framed diplomas on her wall. Yale. Stanford. Impressive, and meaningless when it comes to the wreck of my life.

"You’ve had a choice all along," Dr. Chen says evenly. "You've canceled seventeen appointments."

I run the numbers. Sounds right. "I was busy."

"Busy avoiding this."

"Busy wrestling. The job PRIME actually pays me to do."

She scribbles a note in a notebook, and that old resistance flares. What’s she writing? Patient evasive. Hostile. Thinks she’s clever.

"These sessions are mandatory due to your conduct," she states. "Grief is serious, especially with how you’ve handled it. It’s also—"

"It’s bullshit," I cut in. "My father’s been gone almost two years. If I were going to break, wouldn’t it have happened by now?"

"You think you're normal?" Her tone sharpens. "From where I sit, you’ve been unraveling for two years. You just haven’t noticed."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"You’ve lost seven straight, to opponents you could've beaten. Sent your eight-year-old to live with her grandparents—"

"Don’t you dare—"

"—isolated yourself, acted recklessly in the ring, hid your father’s death for ten months." She sets her pen down and leans forward. "You’re not busy, Rose. You’re drowning. And you’ve been drowning so long you’ve forgotten how to breathe."

The room chills. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t I?" She picks up a file, my file. My stomach knots. "Mother died when you were five. Father became distant, buried in this. You grew up fighting for the attention of a man who was there but not really. Married young, likely seeking stability from the first person to give you attention. Husband died in a car accident—"

"Stop."

"—which nearly killed your daughter. Father died of brain cancer a year later. And instead of processing any of it, you force your way onto a paramilitary Russian wrestling faction and start a war with PRIME’s top stable." She lifts her eyes. "That’s not coping. That’s a death wish wearing ambition’s mask."

I’m on my feet. "You have no right—"

"I have every right. You signed the forms. Did you think I wouldn’t do my homework?" Her calm infuriates me. "Sit down."

"Fuck. You."

"Sit. Down." The authority in her voice stops me. I don’t sit, but I don’t leave. "You’re here because Lindsay Troy is afraid you’ll get yourself killed, and she doesn’t want that on her conscience."

"Lindsay doesn’t care."

"Lindsay Troy called three months ago, asking me to get you through that door." Dr. Chen stands, matching my height. "She told me about your father. Their history. How she watched him destroy himself living up to his legacy, and now she’s watching you do the same."

"She doesn’t get it."

"Doesn’t she? She’s lost people, too. Buried friends, seen careers implode, watched what this business does to those who stay too long." Dr. Chen steps closer. "Difference is, she learned to ask for help. You’d rather bleed out quietly."

My fists clench. "Don’t talk about my father like you knew him."

"I don’t need to know him. I know you. Legacy kids who mistake silent suffering for strength. Who confuses self-destruction with devotion. Who pushes everyone away and wonders why they’re alone."

"I’m not alone."

"Really?" Her head tilts, clinical. "When’s the last time you really spoke to your daughter? Not a rushed call where you pretend everything’s fine?"

"That’s none of your—"

"Three weeks. Phone records show two calls to Adeline. Ninety seconds total." The words hang. "Your daughter is eight. She lost her father. Then you sent her away. Does she understand? Or does she think her mom doesn’t want her?"

The blow lands deep. "Stop."

"Why? Because it hurts? Good. It should. You sent your child away to shield her, but all you did was echo your father’s pattern. Abandoning those who need you most."

"I am nothing like my father."

"You’re exactly like him." Her voice cuts clean. "Right down to the self-righteous martyrdom. How did it end for him? Dying alone. His daughter didn’t even tell anyone he was gone for ten months. Is that what you want? For Adeline to learn you’re dead from a press release?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Make me." She folds her arms. "Go ahead. Walk out. Prove me right. Prove you can’t handle the truth."

I’m shaking, rage and grief colliding. "You think you’re so smart because you read a file?"

"I think you’re scared." Her voice softens, the words still sharp. "Scared that if you slow down, stop fighting, stop hurting, that you’ll have to feel. And feeling means facing it: your father’s dead, your husband’s dead, your mother’s dead. And you’re still here, carrying it all alone."

"I’m handling it."

"Are you?" She returns to her desk, pulling out another sheet. "Seven consecutive losses. Each worse than the last. You’re not even trying to win. You’re showing up to take a beating. That’s not handling it. That’s punishment disguised as sport."

"I'm winning now. Those were tough opponents—"

"Sure. Cancer Jiles. Brandon Youngblood. Chandler Tsonda. You could’ve taken Hessian. You could've beaten them. You just didn’t want to."

"Why would I choose to lose?"

"Because losing confirms what you already believe." Dr. Chen sits, gesturing toward my chair. I stay standing. "You think you don’t deserve to win. The losses are your penance. You pick at the wound so it never heals. You think you poison everyone. Every loss is proof. Every defeat justifies pushing people away."

"That’s ridiculous."

"Is it? Let’s talk about Arina Timofeyevna."

I freeze. "What about her?"

"Russian diplomat. Red Army member. Training partner. You two have grown close, I hear." She watches me. "How long until you sabotage that, too?"

"I’m not sabotaging anything."

"You keep vanishing, ignoring her texts. In Tampa, footage shows you cutting a meeting short. You’re testing her. Waiting to see how much she’ll take. And when she leaves, you’ll use it as proof you were right."

"You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t I?" Her eyes lock on mine. "You did it with Tommy Casanova. He shows up trying to honor your father, and you push him away, confirming he was right to abandon you."

"He did abandon me!"

"And you’re making sure no one else sticks around! That’s your pattern. Push. Test. Sabotage. Prove you’re unlovable. It’s safer than connection. Connection means vulnerability, vulnerability means pain."

I’m breathing hard, ragged. "You don’t get to analyze me like some case file—"

"Then stop acting like the poster child for unprocessed grief!" She stands, and real anger breaks through. "Fifteen years I’ve done this. Dozens of wrestlers sat where you are. Some let me help. Some didn’t. The ones who refused? They’re dead, disabled, or disposed of."

"That supposed to scare me?"

"It should! You’re not even thirty. You have an eight-year-old daughter who needs her mom, and you’re playing Russian roulette every time you step in that ring!" Her composure shatters. "Your father died at forty-eight. Brain deteriorating from concussions. You’ve had two in the last year alone. How many more until you’re in the same bed he was?"

"Don’t—"

"How many more until Adeline is in my successor’s office, talking about her dead mother?" Her voice turns pleading. "You think you’re protecting her by sending her away? You’re teaching her that when things get hard, you abandon the people you love. Is that what you want?"

Something inside me crumbles. "You don’t get it—"

"Then make me understand!" She’s right in front of me, and behind the clinical tone, I see genuine concern. "Tell me why you’re so determined to destroy yourself. Tell me why your father’s death means you have to die, too. Tell me why an eight-year-old has to lose both parents before she turns ten!"

Something comes over me. I feel the dam pressing, about to burst. I can feel the Earth shift perceptibly on its axis.

“Fuck this,” I mutter as I storm to the door, violently opening it. I step through and slam it behind me with enough force I hear the diplomas fall off the wall.

“Fuck all of this.”

Session Two

Hours later, I find myself in a standoff with a bottle of bourbon, my eyes burning a hole through it. My mind has shifted to my upcoming match against Rob Williams in a few days, which is the only reason I would ever step foot in Columbia, South Carolina.

That motherfucker is going to beat me.

Self-doubt creeps into my thoughts. I try to shake it loose, but after this afternoon’s session with Dr. Chen, it has its hooks in me and then some.

You don’t belong in the ring with someone like Rob, much less Hanlon or FLAMBERGE. He’s won the Five-Star Championship. The only thing you two have in common is how fucked up you both are.

With the self-doubt comes a wave of despair. I lean forward, grabbing the bottle of bourbon --

KNOCK. 

--well, that’s unexpected. Who the fuck is coming around my room this late at night? I let loose a sigh as I stand up -- don’t judge me, I’m wearing black pajama bottoms and a white cami -- and make for the door. As I pull it open, half expecting it to be another fan who wants to profess their undying love for me, I’m surprised by who I see on the other end.

“Arina,” her name is out of my mouth like a whisper.

“You busy?”

I shrug my shoulders and step to the side as she comes in, not in her usual diplomatic attire, but in jeans and a fitted sweater. She looks more approachable, someone I could confide in. Her gaze sweeps over me, taking in my haggard eyes and blotchy skin.

"You look terrible," she says, blunt yet kind. Every bit the Arina that I’ve come to know.

"Thanks for noticing."

I let the door close, the room suddenly becoming intimate. No training mats, no bar, no audience, just the silence of guilt and secrets.

“You go to therapy?” She’s clearly wasting no time.

You don’t have time for this; you need to get back to thinking up ways to lose to Rob Williams. It’s what you do best.

“Yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “What happened?” She seems angry with me, as if I ran over her cat.

“Oh, you know, typical Rose. She starts pushing all of the right buttons and I cry my eyes out, admit she’s right, and am on the road to healing.”

The look on her face is one of doubt.

“So, you act like child and pout, storm out, not deal with your issues.”

Well, she’s got you figured out. Maybe she can speed up your spiral and make it easier for Rob to beat your ass on Friday.

“Not in so many words, but yeah,” I sigh as I lean against the hefty door.

“You think you are healthy?”

Oh, a second round of therapy. This should be great. I wonder if this is how Anna Daniels treats Rob behind closed doors. Maybe he’s into that masochistic shit. Ball gag, whip, lick my feet. 

“I mean, my body fat has never been lower.” Yep, there’s that trusty sarcasm to keep people at bay.

“Rose,” the way she says my name is dripping with poison, and it still makes my toes curl.

“What do you want from me, Arina?”

She licks her lips. “I want you to grow up. Stop ghosting. Stop disappearing. Own up to what you’re doing. Make right the promises you break.”

I doubt Anna is going that hard at Rob, or else he’d be like Jared Sykes, crying in the ring every week. 

“That would be easy. I don’t do easy.”

“Clearly.”

“Look, this is who I am. I’m focused on taking down FLAMBERGE and Farthington and apparently Hanlon, though I guess I had that one coming.”

She shakes her head. “Because you don’t think. You just act. Impulsively. Like a child would.”

“Instead of what?” I push back.

“Thinking through what you do. Realizing your actions have impacts on others. That you’re hurting Adeline in the process.”

Wait, what? Why did she bring Adeline up like that? Wait, hold up, remember that kid who was following Rob around? You think he might be… oh shit. You are like Rob! Abandoning people left and right. Robina Williams. It’s catchy.

“When are you going to open eyes finally?” She's yelling at me now. I don’t like it when people yell at me.

“Arina, you weren’t in that room. She called me out on everything. The losses, ditching Adeline, pretending my dad didn’t die. Said I was destroying myself in the ring.”

“She not wrong.”

I feel that knot in my chest loosen again. “You don’t think I know it? That every word she said was true? That I push people away first. Test them until they break, then use it as proof I was right?”

Her arms fold across her chest, head cocks to the side. “All true. If you know it, why perpetuate it?”

She’s got you there. I mean, do you really want to be like Rob? That sounds like seventh circle of hell-like shit. You should rethink your entire life.

“Because what’s the alternative?!” My voice is no longer soft, calm, collected. I’m pissed. Big mad. “I need to end Farthington, Arina! I thought you, out of everyone else, would understand it.”

She closes the gap between us. “I do. What I don't understand is why you think you have to go alone. You have people in your corner. Ivan. Adeline.” She pauses. “Me.”

I open my mouth, but find it is dry. It takes me a moment. “She brought you up,” I whisper, the anger gone.

"Me?"

"Yeah. Said I was self-sabotaging. Seeing how much you’d take before walking." I swallow hard. "She’s right. I vanish for weeks. Left you at the warehouse with Tommy. Ghosted your calls. I’ve been a mess."

That’s right, own it. Don’t be Rob. Be better than Rob. Be the opposite of Rob. 

"Yes," Arina said, flat but without malice. "And I’m still here."

"Why?"

Arina considered me. "Because I understand. I have lost people. Rose. I know about walls. They do not keep the pain out, just people."

My voice cracks. “I’m trying.”

“You are not.” She just digs in deeper, stands there, and takes the blows with me, unflinching, unwilling to move. Why?

Do you know what you see when you look in the mirror? Because it’s the same thing Rob sees. And you should fucking hate it. Both of you have it all. Friends. Money. People who look up to you. And what do you both do? Run. Hide. Ghost people. Run to rehab only to repeat the same patterns. Hurt the ones that matter the most to you.

“Because--,” the words catch in my throat. I feel the tears streaming down my face as I look at her, willing to pull the hurt out of me and be there for me through it all. “Because it would require me to be honest with myself, with people who care.”

“Then be honest,” she challenges me. “Let people in. You not alone.”

The thing that threatened to break in Chen’s office? It’s shattered into a million pieces as I feel my legs give out on me. I slide down the door, sobs causing my chest to heave as I bury my head into my knees.

Was that so hard? You have a choice. You can continue to self-sabotage, or you can finally do things a different way. You can walk the opposite path that Rob has, you can take the steps to where you should be while he continues in a free fall, listening to the voices in his head telling him what he wants to hear instead of the words you need to hear. Simply so he can abscond responsibility. 

Moments pass, tears blurring my vision, my throat constricting in pain. I try to gather myself, sure I’m alone in the room, but I realize I’m not. She’s holding me.

You deserve this. You deserve someone in your corner. Don’t push her away. Don’t do the Rob thing. Let her in. 

“I-I,” I try to speak, but the words don’t make it any further. The sobbing is uncontrollable. Arina sits next to me, cradling my head against her shoulder.

Arina sits beside me, pulling me into her arms, my head against her shoulder. She says something in Russian. Soft, steady, syllables I can’t understand but feel all the same. The sound calms me, anchors me.

I fight through it, needing to get this out. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

She looks at me, words heavy. “This?”

"Whatever this is. Friendship. Partnership. Training. I don’t want to wreck it."

Arina is quiet, her gaze steady. "I don’t like when you disappear. When you vanish and I don’t know if you’re hurt, angry, or just... gone. I’m trying, Rose. I don’t have many women in my life I trust."

The words hit me hard. "Is that what you want? To trust me?"

Arina’s eyes lock onto mine, more open than I’d ever seen. "What are you asking?"

"I’m asking if there’s more here."

Arina’s breath catches. "Rose—"

Before doubt sets in, I cup her face. She leans in, eyes fluttering shut.

"Tell me to stop," I murmur, "and I will."

"Nyet."

The first kiss is tentative, a question. Then her hand slides to my neck, a soft sound escaping her, and the kiss deepens. She tastes like mint and defiance, and for the first time in months, hope flickers in my chest.

We pause, foreheads pressed together. When we part, Arina’s eyes stay closed a beat longer, as if afraid the moment will vanish.

You caught me by surprise," she whispers in disbelief.

"Bad surprise?"

Her lips curve and she opens her eyes. "Nyet. The best kind."

Her phone buzzes sharply. I watch Arina’s face tighten as she checks the screen.

"Shit." She exhales, thumbing through the message. "Ivan needs me. I have to go."

"It’s fine," I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m not running."

"You swear?"

The question carries weight.

"Yeah."

Arina nods, relief flickering. She stands, smoothing her sweater, slipping back into her diplomat’s poise. But her cheeks are flush, her eyes alive. I stand behind her, trying to put my face back together.

She’s nearly out the door when she stops. She turns, framing my face between her hands.

This kiss is slow, deliberate. I melt into the warmth of her lips, the firm press of her fingers—a moment suspended between fleeting and forever.

When Arina pulls back, her eyes find mine. "Do not disappear on me again." A pause. “Rosa.”

The smile that comes is natural. "I won’t."

One firm nod, then she’s gone.

After the door shuts, I gently touch my lips, trying to process what just happened.

You took the first step to accepting happiness, something that will elude Rob until the end of time. Because he has nothing worth fighting for. You do.

I glance at my phone.

You know what to do.

Without another thought, I pull up the contact I’d avoided for weeks and tap the button.

One ring. Two—

"MOMMY!"

Adeline's voice burst through the line--bright, brimming with joy.

I forgot how much I missed her voice. A voice I hadn't earned, but a voice I knew I was desperate to fight for. If it took therapy. If it took facing another broken soul like Rob Williams, if it, somehow, took allowing a quiet Russian girl to have a piece of my heart.

I can’t pretend I'm not still fucked up, as if I don’t still have countless therapy sessions in front of me. That I will still wake up some mornings wanting to push everyone away and prove I'm poison.

I realize it will all be worth it. That it doesn’t take sacrifice. But courage. And perhaps a small part of fear and honesty.

"Mommy?" My daughter's voice brought me back to the here and now.

"Hey, baby girl," I said, smiling genuinely for the first time in months. "Tell me about your day."