Page 15 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Beneath the video is a short bio. Ella “Scottie” Crawford. Founder. Former professional soccer player. Specializes in post-op recovery and neuromuscular rehab. The write-up is polished and professional—nothing like the girl I remember with turf burns on her legs and a fire in her eyes that dared anyone to tell her she couldn’t make a come back.
But I know the real story. Or at least, I know my version of it.
When her injury happened, I was at training camp in Vancouver—fighting for a spot, trying to prove I belonged on the first line. I flew back the second I read the news. It wasn’t just a tweak. It wasn’t a ‘give it a week, and you’ll be fine’ injury. It was the kind that rewrites your entire future.
Career-ending bad.
I showed up at the hospital like an idiot—with coffee and a backpack full of distractions, thinking maybe I could make herlaugh and take her mind off the unthinkable. I didn’t even get past the waiting room. She wasn’t seeing anyone outside of her family.
I sat in the rental car for an hour that night, phone in hand, waiting for something. A message. A sign. Someone telling me I could come in.
No one ever sent it.
After that, whatever was between us hardened into silence—solidified by the gradual unraveling of my friendship with Leif. We were still friends, still checking in on each other here and there, but it was never quite the same since we lived in different states. Not until now—now that we’re back on the same team.
But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting—that she shut me out. That she didn’t let me be there when everything fell apart for her—because maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be here now, watching her through a goddamn website video as if she’s someone I barely know.
I scroll down. Services:Cross-Conditioning. Lower Body Mobility. Return-to-Sport Protocols. Performance Re-entry. Injury to Elite.They should add ‘Emotional Whiplash Therapy’ to the list. Watching Scottie in her element—confident, capable, and completely in control—it messes with my head more than the pain in my knee ever could.
I close the tab before I spiral any further. That part of me that’s always rooted for her? Still there. Even if I don’t know where I stand anymore.
And now she’s the one with the clipboard.
She gets to decide if I’m worth saving—and I’m not sure I’d blame her if she didn’t.
Chapter Six
Scottie
Don’t Let Him Make It About You
There are a lot of rules in physical therapy: protocols, thresholds, baselines, and guidelines. No one teaches you in school how to handle the athletes who treat them all like loose suggestions printed on the back of a cocktail napkin.
Jason Tate is exactly that brand of impossible and somehow infuriating client you want to fire but can’t until he gives you a real motive.
Every day, when he walks into the center, he does it like it’s game day. Swagger at full volume. Ego in tow. His knee brace squeaks with every step like it’s auditioning for a horror film, but God forbid he admits it needs oil. Or that maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t need to wear it like an emotional support blanket.
For reasons known only to him—or maybe the gods of orthopedic chaos—he’s made a hobby out of crashing my group sessions. Two in one week. Signed up. Logged in. “Observing.” As if sitting in the back row like some broody, Byronic statue is fooling anyone.
I recognize posturing when I see it.
Jason Tate isn’t here to heal. He’s here to spar.
It’s fine. I’ve seen worse. Treated worse. Been sworn at in three languages and bitten by a surprisingly hostile gymnast.
But Jason? He’s something else. A pebble in a shoe—too small to sideline you, too irritating to ignore. Just enough friction to drive you insane, and he knows it. He lives in it. He’s having a hard day, but still, he’s now on my shit list.
So when I see his name on the roster for tomorrow’s 9 a.m. class—again—I don’t let it affect me.
Not outwardly.
I circle it in red, flag it for Reese, and rehearse my lines: ‘It’s routine.’ ‘He’s a dropout case waiting to happen.’ ‘I don’t have the emotional energy to guide another brooding athlete through the minefield of unmet expectations and performance anxiety disguised as arrogance.’ ‘We shouldn’t be wasting our qualified personnel on him.’
He’s not my client. And no matter how many calls Jacob places every day, he’s not going to be my client.
And this? This is not personal.
I’ll casually bring it up with Reese. Nothing dramatic. Just a, “Hey, quick question—what’s Jason Tate doing in my sessions, and do we allow loitering with intent to brood?”
