Chapter 86 The Consultation
Crew's POV,
Dr. Okonkwo's office was on the third floor of a building in Yaletown, all windows and natural light and that particular smell of expensive therapy—lavender diffuser mixed with leather furniture and the faint scent of herbal tea nobody actually drank.
I'd been coming here twice a week for four months. Usually, I came alone. Today, Harper was with me, sitting in the chair next to mine, both of us facing Dr. Okonkwo across her tasteful wooden desk.
"Tell me about the offer," Dr. Okonkwo said, after we'd done the usual pleasantries about how I was sleeping, eating, managing pain.
So I did. The whole thing. Three point two million dollars. Two years. The face of Apex Athletic's Performance Without Compromise campaign. The morality clause that required me to either lie about my history or obscure it beyond recognition.
Dr. Okonkwo listened without interrupting, which was her signature move. She had this way of making silence feel productive instead of uncomfortable.
When I finished, she turned to Harper. "What's your perspective?"
Harper shifted in her seat. "I want him to take it. The money would change our lives completely. But I also don't want him to do anything that compromises his recovery. So I'm conflicted."
"Conflicted how?"
"I keep trying to convince myself it's not really lying. That it's just privacy. That he doesn't owe strangers his full medical history." Harper's voice got quieter. "But I know that's me trying to rationalize wanting the money."
Dr. Okonkwo nodded, then looked at me. "Crew, walk me through your thought process. When you first heard about this offer, what was your immediate reaction?"
"Excitement. Like, pure adrenaline excitement. This is the kind of deal guys dream about. Face of a major brand. Financial security. Legitimacy beyond just being a hockey player." I paused. "Then I read the morality clause and felt sick."
"Sick how?"
"Like I was being asked to erase the last four months. Like all the work I've done—the honesty, the vulnerability, the public article about recovery—like none of that mattered if I could just pretend to be someone I'm not for enough money."
"And how does that feel? Being asked to pretend?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it, not just the surface answer.
"Familiar," I said finally. "I spent three years pretending. Pretending the pills were just pain management. Pretending I had it under control. Pretending I wasn't an addict. And that pretending almost killed me."
Dr. Okonkwo leaned forward slightly. "So this offer is asking you to return to a behavior pattern that was actively harmful."
"Yeah. But for three million dollars, which feels different than doing it for free."
"Does it? Or does it just feel more justified?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
Harper spoke up. "But he wouldn't be using. He'd just be private about his recovery. Isn't that different?"
"Is it?" Dr. Okonkwo turned to her. "Harper, what do you think Crew gains from being public about his recovery?"
"I don't know. I guess... community? Support? The ability to help other people who are struggling?"
"And what do you think he loses if he has to hide that part of himself?"
Harper was quiet for a moment. "All of those things."
"Right." Dr. Okonkwo pulled out a notepad, wrote something down. "Crew, let me ask you a different question. If this contract required you to never eat Italian food again, would you take it?"
I blinked. "What?"
"If Apex said: we'll pay you three million dollars, but you can never eat pasta, pizza, Italian food of any kind for two years. Would you sign?"
"I guess? I mean, that's a weird requirement but it's not that hard."
"Why not?"
"Because Italian food isn't essential to who I am. I like it, but I can live without it."
"Exactly." She set down her pen. "Now, if they said you can never talk to your mother again for two years, would you sign?"
"No. Obviously not."
"Why?"
"Because my relationship with my mom is essential. It's part of who I am. I can't just turn that off for money."
"So the question becomes: where does your recovery fall on that spectrum? Is it Italian food—nice to have, but not essential? Or is it your mother—fundamental to who you are?"
I felt Harper's hand find mine.
"It's my mother," I said quietly. "Recovery is who I am now. It's not just something I do. It's how I understand myself."
Dr. Okonkwo nodded. "Then I think you have your answer."
"But the money—" Harper started.
"The money is significant," Dr. Okonkwo agreed. "And I'm not going to tell you that choosing financial security over a sponsorship is wrong. Money matters. Stability matters. But Crew, you need to be honest with yourself about what you're actually choosing. You're not choosing privacy. You're choosing shame."
The word hit like a physical blow.
"I wouldn't be ashamed—"
"Wouldn't you? If you sign this contract, what happens the next time someone asks about your recovery? What happens when you're at an NA meeting and someone recognizes you? What happens when a journalist asks directly about the article you published?" She paused. "You'd have to either lie or deflect. And every time you do that, you're reinforcing the message that addiction is something to hide. That recovery is shameful."
"But I'd be lying to protect the contract, not because I believe recovery is shameful."
"Your brain doesn't know the difference. Secrecy around addiction—even strategic secrecy—triggers the same shame response. The same patterns that kept you sick for three years."
Harper squeezed my hand. "What if he just did the campaign without talking about recovery publicly? Like, he doesn't bring it up, but he also doesn't lie if asked directly?"
"Read the contract again," Dr. Okonkwo said. "Does it allow for that nuance?"
Harper pulled out her phone, scrolled to the PDF Marcus had sent. Read aloud: "'The ATHLETE agrees not to associate with organizations that promote or normalize substance abuse.' That means he can't publicly attend NA meetings. Can't speak at recovery events. Can't do anything that identifies him as part of the recovery community."
"So I'd have to hide," I said. "Actively hide."
"Yes."
We sat in silence. Outside, a siren wailed past. Someone's emergency, someone's disaster, happening while we sat in this expensive office talking about whether integrity was worth three million dollars.
"What would you do?" I asked Dr. Okonkwo. "If you were me?"
She smiled slightly. "That's not how therapy works. I don't tell you what to do."
"Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically, I would ask myself: what kind of person do I want to be? And then I would make the choice that aligns with that person, regardless of the cost."
"That's not helpful."
"It's extremely helpful. You just don't like the answer." She leaned back. "Crew, you're 120 days sober. You've done incredible work. You've been honest, vulnerable, courageous. You published an article that helped thousands of people. You go to meetings. You sponsor someone now, don't you?"
"Yeah. Tyler. He's a rookie. Twenty-three. Got hurt, got prescribed pills, same story as everyone."
"And what would Tyler think if you signed this contract?"
I felt something crack in my chest. "He'd think recovery was something you hide if you want to succeed."
"Would he?"
"Yeah. He would. And he'd be right to think that, because that's exactly what I'd be doing."
Harper made a small sound. Not quite a sob, but close.
Dr. Okonkwo let the silence sit for a minute, then said gently, "I'm not telling you not to take the money. I'm telling you to be clear about what you're trading for it. And to ask yourself if you can live with that trade."
"What if I can't afford not to take it?" Harper said. "What if this is our one chance at financial security? What if turning this down means we struggle for years?"
"Those are real concerns. Valid concerns." Dr. Okonkwo looked at her. "But Harper, you're a physical therapist. You own a thriving clinic. Crew plays professional hockey. You're not destitute. You're not choosing between this contract and homelessness. You're choosing between financial abundance and financial adequacy."
"Adequacy doesn't pay for my mom if she gets sick," I said. "Adequacy doesn't expand Harper's clinic. Adequacy doesn't set us up for when I'm too old to play."
"You're right. But dishonesty doesn't guarantee those things either. It just guarantees you'll have more money while lying about who you are."
The session went another twenty minutes. We talked through scenarios, alternatives, what-ifs. By the end, I felt exhausted and no closer to an answer.
In the parking garage, sitting in my truck, Harper said, "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking I want the money. And I'm thinking I can't take it."
"Why not?"
"Because Tyler texted me this morning. Said he's three days sober and he's only still sober because I told him it was possible. Because I was public about it. Because I didn't hide." I started the engine. "If I sign this contract, I'm telling him—and everyone like him—that recovery is something you're ashamed of unless you're brave enough to be poor."
"That's not what you'd be saying—"
"That's exactly what I'd be saying." I pulled out of the parking spot. "Harper, I love you. And I want to give you everything. But I can't buy you a clinic expansion with my soul."
She was quiet the whole drive home.
That night, I called Marcus.
"I'm turning it down," I said.
"Crew, think about this—"
"I have thought about it. For two days. I talked to my therapist. I talked to my wife. I talked to myself. And the answer is no."
"This is three million dollars."
"I know what it is."
"You're never going to get another offer like this."
"Then I guess I won't. But Marcus, I almost died pretending to be someone I'm not. I'm not doing it again. Not for three million. Not for thirty million."
There was a long pause. Then: "Okay. I'll tell Apex."
"And Marcus? I want to do an interview. About why I'm turning it down. About what this contract was asking me to do. About why recovery shouldn't be something athletes have to hide to get endorsed."
"Crew, that's going to burn bridges—"
"Good. Let them burn. Maybe somebody else won't have to choose between honesty and money."
After I hung up, Harper was standing in the doorway.
"You're sure?" she asked.
"No. But I'm doing it anyway."
She crossed the room and kissed me. Hard. Certain.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered.
"Even though I just turned down three million dollars?"
"Especially because you turned down three million dollars."
We stood there holding each other, and I tried not to think about all the things we could have bought with that money.
Tried not to think about the fact that doing the right thing didn't make it hurt less.
But at least I could still look at myself in the mirror.
At least I could still look at Tyler and tell him recovery was worth it.
Even when it cost everything.