Page 23 of Playing for the Hat Trick
There’s no way I’m putting pressure on it. Not even for a second. I can’t. Won’t.
The instructor glances over and doesn’t say anything immediately, which I appreciate. My entire body is already broadcasting ‘I hate this’ loud and clear.
She moves closer, voice low and even. “You can rest in Savasana if that feels safer. It’s still part of the practice.”
I almost laugh. I’m not sure what Savasana is, but I came here to move through trauma or whatever the brochure said, and five minutes in, I’m being benched.
Again.
She points to some diagrams on the wall and says to lay down.
I want to get the fuck out of here.
But still, I nod and roll onto my back. Legs out. Arms down. Savasana it is.
The mat isn’t soft enough. The room is too warm. The air smells like eucalyptus and acceptance. And I’m lying here like a fraud in stretchy pants.
I stare up at the ceiling—dark beams, a few soft lights glowing from sconces along the wall. The kind of light that’s supposed to calm your nervous system.
Mine’s not buying it.
My body’s still wired for impact, and my brain’s busy cataloging every time I’ve tried to recover and failed. Clinics. Trainers. That one surgeon who called me a “challenging case” like I wasn’t sitting right there.
I close my eyes. Not for stillness. Not for the presence the instructor keeps reminding us of. I just shut it all off for a second so I can get enough strength to go to my next appointment before I give up for good.
Chapter Nine
Jason
When You Think You’re Fucked . . . You Probably Are
The hallway from the yoga studio to the PT wing isn’t long, but I still manage to hate every step of it.
My knee’s twitchy. My quad feels like it’s been replaced with beef jerky. And my mind? That’s doing its usual performance of ‘You’re not actually getting better, you’re just getting good at faking it.’
I drag myself past the framed inspirational quotes lining the walls:
Progress is still progress.
Trust the process.
Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.
Who makes this shit? Is there a factory somewhere printing these out while former athletes scream into protein shakes?
When I push open the double doors to the PT area, I catch the scent of sweat, disinfectant, and peppermint muscle balm—therapy-grade ambiance. The place is bright but not blinding—expansive windows let in filtered daylight, mats and benches spaced out like someone actually thought about comfort. Rehab stations are to the left, turf is to the right, and far back are the squat racks where Reese tortures the overachievers.
Reese isn’t here yet. Lucky me, but I probably spoke too soon. Her PT lead—Alex—spots me instantly.
The guy’s probably all of twenty-four with a perfect beard fade and the kind of smile that says,I still believe in your potential even when you don’t.He waves me in like I’m not dragging the little dignity I have left behind me.
“You made it,” he says, like I just walked out of an avalanche and not from a yoga class where I laid on my back doing nothing.
Fucking nothing.
“Don’t sound so shocked.” I limp a little closer, knee already pissed.
Alex tosses me a red resistance band like we’re picking up right where we left off.
