Page 11 of Playing for the Hat Trick
She finally looks at me.
No pity. No flinching. Just those eyes—cool, calculated, familiar—and a calm that pierces through me.
“Why are you really here, Tate?”
I glance around the room. “Honestly? The lighting in here is phenomenal. My selfies are gonna slap.”
“Try again.”
I meet her eyes and forget how to breathe for a second. “This might be my last shot. And I have no idea why no one referred me to you before I went on my nationwide Tour de Sadness and Expensive Copays.”
Her lips twitch again, just enough to indicate she’s not made of stone. Maybe steel. But not stone.
“Well, Jacob was right. If we can’t get you to ditch the brace and crutches . . .” She tilts her head. “No one can.”
She pulls a tablet from the wall, swipes through a few screens, and grabs a notepad like she’s about to dissect me for sport. “Let’s start with range of motion.”
“I’m thrilled,” I mutter, dragging myself upright with an Oscar-worthy groan.
“Lie down on the table,” she instructs all business.
“Buy me dinner first.”
She levels me with a look that could freeze boiling water. “Down, Tate.”
I settle onto the table, grumbling under my breath. “Bossy.”
She adjusts the table height, and her fingers skim the side of my leg, firm and clinical. My breath hitches anyway. Because this? This isn’t just about muscles or ligaments or scar tissue. This is Scottie Crawford touching me again—after years of radio silence and one spectacularly hot night.
“Try to relax,” she says, pressing my thigh as she rotates my knee.
“Easy for you to say. Your kneecap isn’t threatening to go rogue.”
She lifts a brow. “On a scale of one to ten, how exhausting are you planning to be today?”
“Somewhere between a fourth-line grinder with a chip on his shoulder and a goalie after a bad call.”
She bites her lip to keep from laughing. That mouth. Fuck, I remember that mouth.
“Flex,” she says, like she didn’t just nearly smile.
I grit my teeth and flex.
Pain flares bright and fast down my quad. “Jesus—fuck—okay, that’s new.”
“No, that’s scar tissue. Hold it.”
“I’d like to lodge a formal complaint.”
“Go ahead. I have a whole drawer of them. Right next to the tissues and shattered dreams.”
I let out a strained laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
She moves to my ankle, checking mobility like I’m not dying inside. “A little.”
“How much is a little?”
“Let’s just say I’m notnotimagining charging you triple.”
