Page 16 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Today, I arrive before the staff lights even hum to life, already halfway through my first cup of black coffee and knee-deep in planning for the weekend’s injury track reshuffle. I’ve got a low-impact progression group booked in Room B, and Reese asked for backup with the lateral resistance circuit, but I’d rather take point. It’s clean work. Objective. Predictable.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Until I walk into the group room and spot him already there.
Jason Tate. Center of my migraine spiral.
He’s early. Sitting in the back row like a glitched-out Greek statue with a hood pulled up and arms crossed, radiating I-don’t-belong-here-but-I-will-be-because-I-can.
His brace is locked in place like it’s keeping him from unraveling. Or maybe it’s his keystone. Who knows. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. Just watches me walk in as if I’m his opponent, and he’s daring me to flinch first.
I don’t.
At least, I pretend not to.
He’s not the first injured athlete trying to make rehab feel like a contact sport. And I’m not about to become the girl who flutters at the sight of a smoldering hockey player with daddy issues and a complex about being vulnerable.
I cue up the playlist. Scan the attendance sheet. Launch into instructions like I didn’t just swallow a sigh shaped exactly like his name.
My voice is crisp, unapologetic. I keep correcting everyone because that’s why they’re here. Kendra’s glutes need stabilizing. Rory’s ankle rotation is compensating for shoulder tension again. Cameron’s squat form is rounding in the lower back. I call it out before it becomes a pattern.
Jason? He sits through it all, silent. He’s watching me like I’m part of some internal game film he’s analyzing. Like I’m the variable he hasn’t figured out how to control.
The session ends. The room begins to clear. I’m resetting bands and mentally checking off my to-do list when I hear the familiar drag-thump rhythm behind me.
Jason.
“Morning, Tate,” I say, keeping my tone light. “What’s the plan today? Audit the class in silence and judge us all for having feelings?”
He doesn’t laugh. Of course, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t leave either.
“I’m observing,” he says, his voice low and dry. “You know. For fun.”
I glance over my shoulder, arching a brow. “Do you do all your fun things with that expression? Because, just so you know, you’re giving serious ‘assigned court-mandated labor’ energy.”
There’s a flicker—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile. More like a reluctant acknowledgment that humor still exists in the world and I may have accidentally poked it out of him.
“I like to be prepared,” he replies.
“For what? Gladiator trials? Emotional warfare?” I turn fully now, arms crossed, mirroring him because if he thinks I’m backing down, he’s clearly never met a stubborn physical therapist with a clipboard and unresolved control issues.
“For when I’m in your rotation.”
“You’re not.”
“Yet.”
God help me with this stubborn man.
“Well,” I draw the word out as I sling a band over my shoulder and resist the urge to fling it at him instead, “feel free to schedule a real session when that miracle occurs. Right after youapologize to your brace for making it carry all your emotional baggage.”
This time, the twitch becomes a slight curve of amusement. It’s not full-on joy, but it’s definitely something.
“You always this mouthy with patients?”
“Only the ones who confuse arrogance for charm.”
“You’re kind of mean.”
