Page 9 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“How complicated?”
“Jason Tate.”
Papa hums. “I had no idea that name came with a red flag emoji—as you kids call it these days. I saw him last night at Leif’s place. He’s still using crutches. Wearing a brace, too.”
“He’s still—?” I blink. “Why is he still wearing a brace? It’s been long enough that he should at least—” I motion vaguely at the door like answers might float in.
“Want me to stay?” Papa offers all parental concerns and meddling energy.
“No.”
“Want me to say something soothing and cliché?”
“Absolutely not.”
He kisses the top of my head and murmurs, “Don’t let him charm his way out of the hard stuff.”
I scoff. “Please. If he even thinks about winking, I’ll double his rehab routine. I’ll make his knees beg for mercy.”
“That’s not exactly the point of your practice,” he says over his shoulder as he heads out, smug as hell.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll be nice. But I’m not making it easy.” I pause, letting the corner of my mouth lift. “He’ll skate again—and if he flirts, he’ll earn every damn stride.”
Chapter Four
Jason
Get In, Get Fixed, Get Out (A Fake Game Plan Jason Tells Himself)
They tell you to expect many things when you hit rock bottom.
Sleepless nights. Bitter pills. That slow, creeping dread that maybe you’ve already played your last game—and didn’t even know it.
What they don’t tell you?
That your rock bottom might come with eucalyptus air diffusers, a juice bar featuring a gluten-free muffin display, and kombucha on tap as if it’s trying to gentrify your despair.
The clinic is . . . sleeker than expected—too sleek for my taste. It screams, “Pain, but make it luxury.” Like a wellness publicist has rebranded suffering into something aspirational. Glass walls, mood lighting, and designer chairs that look more like art installations than anything you’d actually sit on after tearing an ACL.
My crutches thud across the polished floor as I limp through the lobby, dragging what’s left of my pride behind me like a forgotten gym bag. The receptionist gives me a polite double-take. I shoot her my least friendly nod in return. I’m not here to be charming. That guy’s benched. I’m here because I’ve exhausted everything else—and this was the last Hail Mary Jacob could throw.
If they can’t fix me here . . . even Jacob didn’t have a follow-up for that.
Honestly, this place should slap a tagline on their brochures: “Tried everything else? Welcome to your final fuck-it.”
I lower myself into one of the aggressively modern chairs lining the waiting area. It’s all sharp lines and angles pretending to be ergonomic, like sitting on a piece of modern art. There’s a cushion, but it might as well be concrete. My brace clicks as I shift, my leg locked and aching. That same dull, gnawing pressure lives there constantly now, mocking me. Nothing shows up on the scans, so according to every doc I’ve seen, I’m “cleared.”
“You’re good to go,” they said. “The rest is PT.”
I’m not good. I’m stuck.
Stuck in a body that refuses to cooperate. Stuck in a purgatory where the world thinks you’re fine, yet you know you’re not. Maybe I didn’t ask nicely to get in here. Perhaps Icalled in a favor and twisted an arm or two. But I didn’t come this far to play polite.
So here I am.
Braced. Brooding. Waiting for some PR-verified Ivy League therapist to tell me what I already know—that my career is circling the drain, and the only thing left is to make peace with it.
The door behind the front desk opens.
