Chapter 15: Breaking Point *Goodnight, Jim,* she said, her voice soft. *Goodnight, Demit-* I cut myself off, the word hanging unfinished in the air as I turned and practically bolted down the hallway. Demitra's offer from earlier that night, of hanging out at her place, felt like a lifetime ago. The earrings felt heavy, a physical weight on my earlobes, pulling me back to reality, to a Jim I desperately needed to reclaim. Back in my apartment, the adrenaline from the near-miss with the girl at the party was starting to fade, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. My phone buzzed with a text from Demitra, asking if I made it home safe. I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the reply button. *Yeah, all good. Thanks again,* I typed, then hesitated. *You wanna chill tomorrow maybe?* I deleted the message before sending it. That wasn't the move. I couldn't keep using Demitra as a band-aid, a temporary fix for a wound that needed serious surgery. I needed to deal with the root of the problem. Not distract myself with ice cream and fleeting moments of connection. My thumb moved again, this time selecting Rich Paul’s contact. It was 3 AM, way too late to be calling anyone, especially my agent. But I didn't see another way. I hit the call button, the phone ringing several times before a groggy voice answered. "Jim? What the hell time is it?" Rich mumbled, clearly annoyed. "Rich, I'm sorry for calling so late," I said, my voice low. "But I need help." There was a pause, the sound of Rich shifting in bed. "Help with what? Another endorsement deal? Because unless it involves you apologizing to Duke for trashing that hotel room, I’m not interested." "No, it's not that," I said, the words feeling heavy in my throat. "It's… I think I need therapy." The line went silent. I could practically feel Rich’s confusion radiating through the phone. "Therapy?" he finally repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "Jim, you're seventeen years old, a star basketball player, and about to go to Duke. What do you need therapy for?" "Because I almost did something really fucked up tonight," I confessed, the shame burning in my chest. "And I don't want to be that guy, Rich. I need to fix myself before I hurt someone else." Another silence, longer this time. I braced myself for a lecture, for Rich to tell me to toughen up, that this was just a phase. But instead, he surprised me. "Okay," he said, his voice softer now. "Okay, I get it. Look, this isn't exactly my area of expertise, but I know some people. Let me see what I can do. But you gotta promise me you're serious about this, Jim. This isn't a PR stunt. This is about you actually wanting to get better." "I promise," I said, the sincerity in my voice absolute. "I'm done pretending I'm okay. I need help, and I'm ready to do whatever it takes." "Alright," Rich said, a hint of his usual businesslike tone returning. "I'll make some calls in the morning. In the meantime, try to get some sleep. And Jim?" "Yeah?" "Don't do anything stupid." I hung up, feeling a sliver of relief. At least I'd taken the first step. Now, all I could do was wait. The next morning, I woke up to a text from Rich. *Dr. Klein. Sports psychologist. Anger management specialist. Be at his office 3 PM today. Don’t be late.* I stared at the message, a mix of apprehension and determination swirling inside me. This was it. No more running, no more hiding. Time to face the music. I told my parents that I needed to leave for a bit, and that I had some errands to do. As always, they wanted to know where I was going and I simply said that I needed to do errands. As a result, Roxanne gave me the signature disappointed mom look as Lenny told her to back off, and said that he knew Jim was going through a lot. 3 PM arrived with the punctuality of a free throw. I found myself standing in front of a nondescript office building in Midtown, the kind that blended seamlessly into the concrete jungle. Dr. Klein's name was discreetly displayed on the directory. I took a deep breath and stepped inside. The waiting room was surprisingly calming, with soft lighting, muted colors, and the gentle sound of a water fountain. A few other people were scattered around, each lost in their own thoughts. I felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over me. I wasn't exactly the typical therapy patient. After what felt like an eternity, a door opened, and a man in a tweed jacket and glasses emerged. "Jim Feder?" he called out, his voice calm and professional. I stood up, feeling my palms begin to sweat. "That's me." "Come in, please," he said, gesturing towards the open door. Dr. Klein's office was small but comfortable, with a bookshelf lined with psychology texts, a comfortable armchair, and a box of tissues strategically placed on a side table. He gestured for me to sit in the armchair, then settled into a chair opposite me. "So, Jim," he began, his eyes kind but probing. "Rich Paul tells me you're looking for some help." I nodded, feeling the familiar urge to deflect with humor. "Yeah, well, apparently I'm not as mentally stable as I thought I was." Dr. Klein didn't laugh. "What makes you say that?" I hesitated, unsure where to start. "I... I almost hurt someone," I confessed, the words coming out in a rush. "Really badly. And it scared me. It made me realize I have a problem." I recounted the events of the party, the rage that had consumed me, the near-violent encounter with the girl, the self-loathing that followed. Dr. Klein listened intently, nodding occasionally, his expression neutral. "And what do you think triggered this anger?" he asked gently. "Valeria," I said, the name tasting like poison on my tongue. "Her betrayal, Miguel… everything." I told him about my relationship with Valeria, the initial infatuation, the constant teasing and joking, the intense physical connection. I explained how her betrayal had shattered my trust, how it had made me question everything I thought I knew about her, about myself. "It felt like she ripped out my heart and stomped on it," I said, my voice cracking with emotion. "And then she rubbed it in my face with Miguel, like I was nothing." Dr. Klein nodded understandingly. "So you feel betrayed, hurt, and angry," he summarized. "And this anger manifested itself in a way that was frightening to you." "Yeah," I said, looking down at my hands. "I don't want to be that guy, the one who hurts people because he's hurting. But I don't know how to stop it." "That's why you're here," Dr. Klein said, his voice reassuring. "And it's a good first step. Anger is a normal human emotion, Jim. It's what you do with it that matters." We talked for over an hour, Dr. Klein asking questions, gently probing my defenses, helping me unpack the tangled mess of emotions that had been festering inside me. He asked about my family, my friends, my basketball career, my hopes and dreams. "The pressure, Jim," he inquired. "How does the pressure of being a top prospect, with all the expectations that come with it, affect you?" "It's a lot," I admitted. "Everyone expects me to be perfect, on and off the court. But I'm not perfect. I make mistakes. And sometimes, I just want to scream." Dr. Klein nodded. "So you feel like you have to suppress your emotions, to maintain this image of perfection," he said. "And that suppression can lead to anger, resentment, and ultimately, to acting out." He was right. I had been so focused on being the best basketball player, the charming, quick-witted Jim Feder that everyone expected me to be, that I had forgotten how to be myself, how to feel my feelings without judgment. "What about your earrings?" he asked suddenly, gesturing towards my left ear. "You said you put them back on last night, after not wearing them for a while. What do they represent to you?" I hesitated, surprised by the question. "I don't know," I said. "Freedom? Rebellion? Just… me." "Perhaps they represent a time when you felt more authentic, more connected to yourself," Dr. Klein suggested. "A time before the pressure, before the betrayal, before the anger consumed you." Maybe he was right. Maybe the earrings were a reminder of a Jim I had lost along the way, a Jim who wasn't afraid to be vulnerable, to be himself, flaws and all. "So, Jim," Dr. Klein said, leaning forward in his chair. "Where do we go from here?" "I don't know," I said, feeling overwhelmed. "This is all new to me. I feel like I'm lost in the middle of a forest with no map." "That's okay," Dr. Klein said, smiling gently. "We'll find our way together. This is a process, Jim. It's not going to happen overnight. But with hard work and commitment, you can learn to manage your anger, to heal from your pain, and to become the person you want to be." He suggested a treatment plan, which included regular therapy sessions, anger management techniques, and mindfulness exercises. He also recommended that I explore my emotions through journaling or creative expression. "It's not going to be easy," he warned. "There will be setbacks, moments of doubt, and times when you want to give up. But you have to keep going, Jim. You have to fight for yourself." I nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope ignite within me. "I will," I said, the determination in my voice firm. "I'm ready to fight." I left Dr. Klein's office feeling drained but also strangely lighter. The weight on my chest hadn't completely disappeared, but it had shifted, becoming a little more bearable. As I stepped out into the bustling city streets, I realized that I was embarking on a long and difficult journey, a journey of self-discovery, healing, and transformation. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was heading in the right direction. I went straight home and went to bed. I decided not to play basketball that night. I would continue with therapy and try to get better. This was what I needed, no distractions, no quick-fixes, just honest and raw self-evaluation. Later that night, I started writing. Not the usual trash talk for Twitter or a quick text to Zion. I opened a notebook and began to try and untangle the messy threads of my anger, my hurt, and my…