Page 7 of Playing for the Hat Trick
The world doesn’t merely pause when I see the name—it screeches, skids, and grinds to an unholy halt.
Jason Tate.
I blink. Once. Then again.
As if blinking might magically glitch my tablet screen and replace his name with someone less offensive. Someone less impossible. But nope, it’s still there, bold and unrelenting in Helvetica, or maybe it’s Georgia . . . I really don’t know my fonts. Perhaps some other font could’ve cushioned the blow.
I scan the rest of the schedule, hoping—praying—that Em made a typo. Or someone went rogue. What if . . . what if the software auto-filled his name in as a cruel joke? None of it feels real. It feels like a prank the universe dreamed up after a long night drinking margaritas and watching early 2000s romcoms.
“Em?” I call out, trying to sound casual and completely failing.
“Yeah?” she responds from the front desk.
“Is this real?” My voice cracks halfway through the question because I already know the answer and hate it here.
“What’s real?” she asks, appearing around the corner with her smoothie and a look of curiosity and zero remorse.
She doesn’t know what she did at all, does she?
“Jason Tate is on my schedule.” I tap my screen.
She squints and reads the name. “Yeah. That’s . . . Jason Tate, from the New York Vipers.”
The way she says it, as if it doesn’t matter, is . . . not my favorite. I was hoping she’d say no, that’s Jamil Trey or Jagger Trent or . . . some similar name, but definitely not Jason Tate, as in my brother’s best friend, team captain, and, well . . . “As in, the reason I started drinking oat milk and rage journaling? That Jason Tate?” The last part didn’t stay in my head and came out a little too loud.
Em shrugs first but then nods slowly. “I think so. I mean . . . maybe there’s more than one Jason Tate, but he’s the only one I’ve ever heard of who makes sportscasters drool.”
I set the tablet down harder than I intended to. The case squeaks in protest, and honestly, same.
“I can’t believe he’s actually coming here,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “I told Jacob to send him to the second-best PT in the country. I actually drew him a map and even gave him a list of other places he could try until he was back in shape.”
“Well, a week ago, you said yes to a favor before asking who it was for.”
“Because Jacob said he couldn’t tell me unless I agreed first. Also, I owed him a favor, and this is how I’m repaying him,” I groan, dragging both hands down my face. “Manipulative little bastard.”
Em just sips her smoothie, unbothered, while my internal organs are in turmoil.
Jason Tate. He’s scheduled for a 10:30 a.m. evaluation. This means I have exactly fifty minutes to emotionally prepare for the arrival of the man I haven’t seen in years. The same man I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time avoiding—both in conversation and memory. The same man I may or may not have once made out with in my parents’ laundry room after prom while wearing Spanx and questionable lip gloss because my date ditched me for Roxy Brady.
It wasn’t a thing. We weren’t a thing. There was nothing.
(Well, at least until Tokyo, but that doesn’t count either.)
Except . . . I’m still embarrassed about the whole event. So, the farther away he can stay from me, the better. He’s happy, I’m happy . . . I can give him another referral. I think there’s this noodle therapy in Phoenix that could help him.
I brace myself on the edge of the desk and try to breathe through the beginning stages of a mild mental breakdown. “He’s better, right?” I ask. “Like, he doesn’t actually need physical therapy. This is just some bullshit PR stunt, and I can hand him an ice pack and send him on his way back to the Vipers?”
Em shakes her head. “No, this guy needs a full evaluation.”
“We can send him somewhere else.”
She raises one brow. “Do you want to be responsible for botching Jason Tate’s comeback?”
God, she’s right. And I hate that she’s right.
“We’ll give him to another therapist. I’ll do the evaluation, but I’m not working with him.”
Of all the injured athletes Jacob could’ve sent my way, he chosehim. Of all the broken bodies in New York, I get that one, the one who . . . I mean, it wasn’t a big deal. Yes, a kiss, but after that, I felt like the most inadequate person in the world. It’s not like he promised to call me or we said anything important, but still . . . he’s the professional equivalent of a pulled hamstring in my emotional development.
