The rest of the office is filled with boxes, some opened, some sealed shut. Some are in pristine condition; some have seen the inner depths of postal hell. There is a desk tucked back in the corner that is covered in files and a computer and keyboard that has not been stroked since at least 1995. Chipped and stained floating shelves hang unevenly around the room and are decked out in sports memorabilia ranging from signed and encased basketballs to what I can only assume is a size twenty-two basketball shoe to a few hockey sticks and even some Jets footballs.

Okay, now I really know he can’t be trusted.

“Jets,” I mumble to Wilder. “Out of all the football teams to choose from, and he chooses the Jets?”

“Shows resilience,” Wilder says. “Because who would really be able to survive that kind of suffering without a heavy dose of enduring tenacity?”

I mean, he has a point. No one can be tortured for that long without building at least an ounce of resilience.

“This, um, arsenal of athletic archives was not what I was expecting when I was told Sanders is the cream of the crop of marriage counselors. Especially given the design aesthetic of the front of the office.”

Wilder scratches his jaw. “Think he’s going to pass around a hockey stick that must be held in order to talk? Because I’d be down with that.”

Seems like Wilder would be down for anything.

Before I can answer him, a door off to the left opens, and an average-size man in navy blue basketball shorts and a hot pink Hawaiian shirt walks into the office. His beard is peppered with gray, laugh lines define his face, and the sideways baseball hat he’s wearing is giving more Fresh Prince of Bel Air rather than esteemed marriage counselor of the Northeast.

This is Ellison’s husband?

Not to be rude, but he’s giving Adam Sandler impersonator taking a walk on the streets of New York City.

In a run-down pair of Birkenstocks, he struts toward us with a smile plastered across his face and a football spinning in the palm of his hand.

“Hey, man,” he says as he reaches his arm out to Wilder. “Nice to meet you.” Sanders then turns to me and shakes my hand as well. “And you must be Scottie.” He chuckles lightly. “Never met a female Scottie before.”

“Neither did I,” Wilder says, surprising me. “Fell for her name though, because of—” and to my despair, they both say, “Scottie Pippen” at the same time.

“Yes,” Sanders says as he lets go of my hand and then takes a seat. “Back in the nineties, I was obsessed with the Bulls, despite being a Knicks fan. It was hard not to follow the phenomenon.”