Page 35 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Her brow lifts. “Jason. Have you met me?”
“Don’t feed me hope if there’s none left,” I say. “But give me timelines. I need to know what I’m working toward. I need . . . structure.”
She pauses. Something shifts in her face—not sympathy, not softness. Just awareness. Like she sees all of it. The way I keep talking to fill the space. The way I can’t meet my reflection these days.
She takes a step closer.
Too close.
Her voice drops low—not soft, just close enough that I can feel it. “Hope’s not the problem, Jason. It’s what happens when you stop believing you deserve it.”
I look at her then.
Really look.
She smells of clean skin and citrus. Her mouth is set, but there’s tension at the corners. Her eyes don’t flinch. They just hold me there, unblinking, like she’s the only one left who might still believe in me.
And for half a second, I want to tell her everything.
That I’m fucking tired.
I haven’t looked in a mirror without flinching since the surgery.
I don’t know who I am without the adrenaline, ice, and rhythm of people chanting my name like I mattered.
I miss it—not the game, but the glide. The freedom. The clean bite of speed when nothing else existed but motion.
But also, I want to kiss her, kiss her hard, and this time, hope that I could keep her.
I don’t say any of it.
Because if I start, I won’t stop.
And we both know this isn’t about confessions or kisses. It’s about survival. So, I take a breath and say the only thing I can manage with her this close.
“Do I get a safe word?”
Her mouth twitches. She’s trying not to smile. Failing, beautifully.
“Yeah,” she says, stepping back just enough to let me breathe. “Your safe word is: ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’”
“That’s a phrase, not a word,” I argue.
She shakes her head. “If you can say it all, it means you don’t need it. See you tomorrow, Tate.”
Somehow, the promise of seeing her tomorrow feels just a little like hope.
Chapter Twelve
Jason
The “I Swear It’s Just Nerve Firing” Maneuver
Starting over sounded brave in theory.
In reality, it’s more like stripping down in front of someone who knows exactly where it hurts and might not flinch if you break apart mid-session.
No one tells you how fucking loud it gets—not outside, but inside. The quiet in your own head turns into this screamingecho of every doubt you’ve ever had. The second you stop moving, your brain grabs a megaphone and starts reading off your failures like it’s trying to set a record.
