Los Angeles | 2009
Bradley's POV
I sat in the psychologist's clinic, waiting for my scheduled appointment. The waiting room was the same calm space I remembered, all soft blues and clean white lines, but today the quiet felt heavier, charged with anticipation. Mom had dropped me off earlier; she was currently at a lunch with one of her clients and would pick me up later.
"Bradley Naird?"
I looked up. The receptionist was smiling at me from the hallway entrance. "The doctor will see you now."
I stood, my palms suddenly a little damp, and walked into the office. It was just as pristine as the waiting room, a corner office with a massive window that looked out over the city. The walls were a mix of white and shades of blue, decorated with abstract art. Bookshelves lined one wall, and two comfortable-looking armchairs were positioned opposite a large, modern desk.
Seated behind that desk was Dr. Paul Rhoades. He looked to be in his late sixties, an aged, white-haired man with a full head of thick, unruly hair that seemed to defy gravity. He wore a simple, well-tailored suit, and his face was a fascinating roadmap of lines and creases, dominated by a pair of sharp, intelligent dark brown eyes behind his glasses. He wasn't smiling, but his expression wasn't unkind—it was simply neutral, observant. He was a man who listened for a living.
He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Bradley. Please, come in. Sit down."
I sat in the comfortable armchair, the silence of the office a stark contrast to the thoughts that had been swirling in my head for the past week. Dr. Rhoades just watched me for a moment, his gaze analytical but not unkind.
"So, Bradley," he began, his voice a calm, low baritone. "How have you been? I'm sure you have questions on your mind ever since you received the results?"
"I'm doing good doctor" I answered politely.
I let out a slow breath. "If anything, all of it feels surreal to me," I admitted. "I knew the test would go well. I imagined my IQ would be above average, maybe even in the genius category. After I took the test, I felt even more certain." I paused, trying to articulate the complex feeling. "Based on my own internal assessment, I had thought myself to be in the high 140s. But to finally know that the result was 154... that was simply beyond shock."
A slow, involuntary smile spread across my face as I remembered the moment I saw the number on the report. "I was thrilled by it."
A slow, impressed smile bloomed on his face when he saw my own. "Yes, Bradley, it's quite rare to unearth a genius of your caliber. There are less than four hundred thousand people with an IQ greater than yours in the world right now. That would put you in the 99th percentile. You should be proud."
"I am, doctor. Thank you," I said graciously.
"Now," he said, steepling his fingers on the desk, "we can discuss this at length—what it means for career options and other fields you can learn in. But first, tell me. Why did you pick basketball as your profession of choice? With your intelligence, you could have excelled in business, science, and literally any other field."
His question hung heavily in the quiet room. It was a question I myself had pondered on.
"It's because I… love the game, sir," I said simply. He quirked his brows when I said that, signaling for me to elaborate while he scribbled in his notepad.
"Ever since I played that first pick-up game with my Dad, I have fallen in love with basketball," I explained. "Before that, I used to keep myself secluded, only focusing on my studies and quietly letting things happen."
"Why basketball, though?" he asked patiently. "Apart from the time spent with your father, what is the other thing that draws you to it?"
"To be honest, it was the first true experience of bonding I shared with my Dad," I answered. "After he taught me how to shoot the ball, I could never imagine myself not sinking it into the basket. It's not like I haven't explored other options. I tried testing my skills in other sports—soccer, tennis, even football—but even if I was good in them, it never really felt right to me. I could never stave myself off the basketball court."
"And what about science, history, math, or any of the other things you expressed a likeness towards?" he prodded further.
It was then that I realized he had subtly taken me from polite pleasantry to a full-blown session. He was good. I had half a mind to be done with this, but there was something appealing in sharing my personal thoughts with a stranger, knowing they were bound to never reveal them.
"I like history and the sciences," I confessed, a feeling of contentment washing over me with each statement. "And in another lifetime, they may have been the route I would have taken. Yet I realized that using science, math, and history, along with the other things I liked, to enhance my game made me far happier than pursuing one path in particular."
"I see," he said, a look of genuine understanding in his eyes. He leaned forward, his tone shifting. "Now then, walk me through a game of yours. Both one where you were winning and one where you were losing."
I paused, realizing the question was a test. That was certainly new, probably a mental exercise to ascertain my emotional state during matches.
"When we are winning," I began, my voice even and analytical, "I mostly look at the flaws in our execution that can be curbed and controlled. If it's an overwhelming victory, I tend to forget the opponent and use the opportunity to school my teammates while honing and refining my own skills."
"What do you deem your opponents to be at such a time?" he asked, his tone poignant.
I reeled myself in from being too loose with my words. "I find their weakness to be a lack of effort and determination on their part."
"What if your own teammates showcase the very same behavior?" he questioned, his gaze unwavering.
"It would be stamped out in training, or they will be forced out of the team," I said neutrally. It was a fact.
"Do you believe it to be harsh to punish them so? They are your friends, are they not?" he further inquired.
"They are my friends off the court. On the court, we are a team," I answered. "And anyone found holding the team back must either learn to catch up or step out. Besides, I am not forcing them to do anything I myself wouldn't do."
"Is that all it is then—victory above all else?" he said, and for the first time, his tone was not just questioning, but analytical like my own.
"Not above all else," I clarified. "I want them to be able to enjoy the game too, but not by riding on anyone's coattails. That breeds complacency. I want them to relish in victory because they worked for it."
"What if they are wholly unable to realize their potential? Would you discard them still?" he asked.
"Not discard them," I corrected. "But I would ask them to allow others the opportunities to succeed where they could not. It's a meritocracy. You win, so you keep going. When you lose, you either improve or walk out with dignity."
As I answered, he started vigorously writing something in his notepad. The scratching of his pen was the only sound in the room. I was curious to see his analysis of me, but I knew he wouldn't share his personal notes, even if they were about my own psyche.
"Chess is also listed as an interest of yours, Bradley," Dr. Rhoades said, switching lanes so smoothly I almost didn't notice. "How often do you play that?"
We hadn't even discussed my emotional state during game losses, I noted. He would circle back to it later, when I was less prepared. He's good.
"Oh, I play a minimum of three matches every day," I answered. "It helps sharpen my mind and is quite a good exercise to design plays for games as well."
A ghost of a smile approached his wrinkled face. "I see that you were not wrong about integrating your other interests towards basketball."
I smiled and nodded back at him.
"And what about your friends?" he asked, his pen poised over his notepad. "Your teammates, Leo and David. What are they like?"
"They're a good team," I said. "Leo is fire. All passion and aggression. He's the engine. David is the anchor. He's calm, powerful, and more observant than he lets on. We balance each other out. We all want to win, and that shared hunger is what holds us together."
"And your sister?"
My expression softened instantly. "Erin? She's... my little 'Bug.' She's pure, chaotic energy. A walking whirlwind of questions and excitement. It's my job to make sure that whirlwind doesn't spin into a hurricane."
"And your parents? How do you feel about them?"
I paused, the question feeling bigger than the others. "My dad is the man I measure myself against. He's a general, a leader. I respect him more than anyone. My mom... she's the only person who can keep up with me when I'm talking about things that aren't basketball. She's my intellectual partner."
"It sounds like you have a very strong support system," he observed.
"I do," I said, the words full of a certainty that felt absolute.
A soft bell chimed from the doctor's computer, indicating that it was time. He closed his notepad.
"Well, Bradley, this has been a very productive first session," he said, standing up and extending his hand. "We have a lot of interesting things to discuss next time."
"There will be a next session?" I asked incredulously. "Wasn't this a consultation one time only kind of thing?"
He chuckled at that "It was Bradley, but after our session today I feel that coming here for further sessions would be beneficial to you. I still leave the choice to you, I would love to have you here for further sessions"
I found myself agreeing with Dr. Rhoades.
I stood and shook his hand. "Thank you, doctor, for your time. I shall see you for the next session then"
"Excellent" he shook my hand with a warm smile.
I walked out of the quiet, calm office and back into the waiting room. My mother was sitting in the reception area, a magazine resting unread in her lap, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw me.
I approached my mom, who was already on her feet, her face lighting up with a proud, joyful smile.
"How did it go?" she asked, her voice full of warmth.
"It was great," I told her honestly, a feeling of relief washing over me.
Just then, Dr. Rhoades stepped out of his office. "Mrs. Naird could I have a moment with you, please?" he asked, his tone polite.
"Of course," she agreed, giving my shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze before following him back into his office and closing the door.
I sat down in one of the waiting room chairs, watching them through the large glass wall of the office. The blinds had been rolled back up after the session. I watched my mom's body language. She was listening intently, her posture serious. At one point, her brow furrowed, and she looked concerned, even glancing at me for a split second.
She must have noticed my own gaze, because the moment our eyes met, her expression instantly shifted, the worry melting away, replaced by the same warm, reassuring smile from before. She was shielding me from something.
A minute later, she was thanking the doctor and walking back out to me, her demeanor deliberately light and cheerful. "Ready to go, honey?" she asked. "Do you want to go to Alex's place or head home?"
After a day of intense mental analysis and psychological probing, the answer was simple. I wanted comfort. I wanted easy. "I want to go to Alex's place," I confessed. "And have some fun."
"I thought so," Mom acquiesced, her smile genuine this time. "Let's go."
We left the clinic and stepped back out into the bright afternoon, the unspoken questions from her private conversation with the doctor hanging in the air between us.
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Thats it for the week see ya monday. Also the time skip is now over on patreon and we have officially started high school 15 chapters ahead.