Page 18 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Overcompensating Isn’t a Game Plan
There’s a moment—somewhere between the second “Please, take a seat” and the third time I scan the room for an exit sign—where I seriously consider pretending to faint.
Not because I’m afraid of the therapist.
I’m afraid of me. Of being in this room with my thoughts, and with whatever-the-hell this is supposed to be.
The office is warm in that suffocating, cozy-on-purpose kind of way: all beige tones, soft corners, and mid-century knockoff furniture. A scent diffuser in the corner keeps puffing out lavender. I’m convinced this building has a full-blown lavender-eucalyptus fetish. As if a few essential oils will fix everyone’s deeply entrenched issues with control, performance, and—because why the fuck not—life itself.
I’m parked on a couch that’s trying way too hard to be inviting. I wore joggers from a sponsor that’s about to drop my ass if I don’t start playing and a hoodie I haven’t washed in three days because it still smells like something I can’t quite name. Like who I used to be.
Across from me sits Dr. Eliza Park. Probably mid-forties, with neatly styled blonde curls, black-rimmed glasses, and a spine that doesn’t bend for anyone’s theatrics. She doesn’t react to the whole athlete thing and doesn’t even blink when I shift in my brace with a little extra emphasis. Just taps something into her sleek little tablet like she’s already filed me under ‘predictable disappointment: Jason Tate, case closed.’
“I appreciate you trying again,” she says, calm as ever.
“I didn’t,” I answer because, apparently, my mouth wants to set something on fire today.
Her lips tilt. Not a smile. Not even close. But it’s something wry. Something that says,Cute try, rookie.“Didn’t appreciate giving it another shot, or didn’t come willingly?”
“Both,” I admit. “Not sure why this is supposed to work when I only need physical therapy.”
“Good.” She nods once. “Honesty helps.”
Oh. Great.
A therapist who doesn’t play.
Scottie would be proud. This probably explains the referral—well, it’s a “strong suggestion,” according to Reese. I should ask for someone else—someone gentler. Maybe someone whobelieves I’m fine as long as I can touch my toes and climb stairs without flinching instead of asking me how I feel about my current situation. Emotional baggage shouldn’t be part of my recovery.
And even if I’m against it, I won’t say shit. They’ll drop me if I don’t follow through. If I get dropped, that’s it. No more chances. No more come-back arc. In other words, I’m fucked for life.
It’ll be me, my broken career, and a brace I might as well get fitted in every color.
“Jason,” she says, her voice even gentler. “Do you know why you’re here?”
I shrug. “Because it’s part of my ‘recovery plan.’” I draw air quotes, and she doesn’t even twitch. Doesn’t react. Just wait, like she’s got all day, and I’m just the warm-up act.
But what is she really waiting for? The part I’m not saying . . . what is that? Someone should’ve given me the material to study if this was a test. I’m decent enough during tests. What I can’t do is wait and be in a silent room when I’m unaware of what’s happening. So naturally, my mouth gets there first.
“It’s most likely because Scottie thinks I’m emotionally constipated?”
“Scottie?”
Oh. Right. This is a professional setting. Maybe I shouldn’t refer to the woman who might be my only hope by her childhood nickname. Maybe here, she’s Ella. Or Dr. Crawford. Is she even a doctor? I don’t know. Every time I’m on her website, I don’t look that far into her bio. Mostly stare at her picture on the site like a cyberstalker.
So maybe emotionally constipated isn’t the complete diagnosis, but it’s probably not far off. Something about being around her again is making things . . . difficult to discern. Is that even what’s happening to me?
I dodge the follow-up. “It’s part of my recovery,” I repeat, flat and a little too rehearsed. It’s almost like the same shit I have to say when I go to games because it’s in my contract, and a reporter gets ahold of me. They’re waiting for the moment when I say, ‘I’m retiring.’
“Closer,” Dr. Park says, like we’re playing some twisted version of emotional hot and cold.
I blow out a slow breath through my nose, something between resignation and ‘fuck it, let’s just say it.’
“Physically, I’ve been cleared. All the tests say I’m good to go.” My hand gestures vaguely toward my brace and my crutches. “But I’m still limping around like it’s forty-eight hours post-op, and someone dared me to fake progress.”
There. That’s it. My grand confession. Raw honesty disguised in sarcasm because that’s my emotional brand.
I wait for her reaction, half-expecting a metaphor or, worse—breathing exercises. Maybe a line about inner strength or finding my center. Or perhaps she’ll suggest early retirement with a side of spiritual journaling. That would be fun.
