Page 34 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Something inside me flinches.
Not visibly. Not audibly. But I feel it.
Right under the ribs, where things are hardest to admit.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
She doesn’t.
“You built your whole identity on being the guy who never quits. The one who pushes harder lasts longer and out-trains everyone. But now? You’re stuck. And instead of admitting itterrifies you, you’d rather detonate your entire recovery—and career—just to stay in control.”
I shoot to my feet before I even realize I’ve moved.
The file drops to the mat with a dull thud.
“I am in control,” I growl. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not hiding.”
She steps forward, closing the distance between us. Her voice stays low, but there’s fire under every word.
“No. You’re not hiding. You’re posturing. There’s a difference.”
“You don’t get it,” I bite out. “You’ve never had to wonder if your body will betray you. If the one thing that made you worth a damn is already gone.”
Her expression freezes. Just for a second. Then: “You think I don’t know what that feels like?”
I stop pacing.
Her eyes flash. “Did you forget about my soccer career? I tore my ACL in the last ten minutes of a championship game. It was a career-ending injury. I woke up every day for a year wondering if I was still someone. So, yeah, Jason. I know exactly what that feels like.”
Of course, she does, and now I feel like an asshole because I was there. Not there with her because she didn’t want anyone around her, but . . . I was watching from the sidelines.
She kneels in front of me, grabbing my brace. Without a word, she peels it off and sets it beside my foot like it’s not the only thing keeping me together.
“I’m going to retrain your stride,” she says, all calm and command. The edge in her voice is gone, replaced by something surgical. She’s clipped into business mode like she’s about to cut me open and rearrange my soul.
“We’ll start tomorrow—full neuromuscular re-patterning. No crutch. No brace.”
My stomach drops. “I’m not ready.”
“You’re ready enough.”
I meet her gaze. There’s no smirk, no challenge. Just truth. And for once, I don’t want to run. She’s not dangling hope like a carrot—I think she wants to make me try. Wants to see if I’ll take the jump, even if I land on my face.
Then—like she crawled into my head and made a bed there—she adds, “Starting tomorrow, no skipping drills. No half-assed excuses. No self-diagnosing. And if you even think about blowing off your post-activation cooldown, I’ll duct-tape you to the treatment table.”
I drag a hand down my face. “You always threaten your clients with light bondage scenarios?”
She doesn’t look away. “Only the ones I don’t want to lose.”
There it is.
Something kicks in my chest. Not love. Not longing. Just . . . something I forgot I could still feel.
She must catch the shift—or maybe she doesn’t. Perhaps I’m just so goddamn tuned into her that I’m inventing tension where there’s only clinical precision.
I try to reset. Straighten up. Reboot my brain like it didn’t just short-circuit at the idea of her not wanting to lose me.
“I don’t want a cheerleader,” I manage. “Don’t sugarcoat my numbers. Don’t pat me on the head when I hit bare minimum. Don’t bullshit me.”
