Page 12 of Playing for the Hat Trick
When she glances up again, our eyes lock, just for a second. But it’s enough. Enough to remind me she’s not just anyone.
This is Scottie.
And I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’ve walked into.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
Her hands are small. Precise. Calloused from years of playing and being one of the boys . . . sometimes even better than her brothers.
I’m pretending I’m not staring at her mouth.
“Still having trouble with lateral pivoting?” she asks, brushing my knee above the brace.
My breath hitches. “Yeah.”
“Pain or instinct?”
I give it a second, and I blurt, “Honestly, it’s a lot of fucking fear.”
That earns me a pause. A real one. Her eyes meet mine for a full second too long.
She bobs her head and continues the eval.
After a series of strength tests and mobility checks, in which I fail two out of five and wince through the rest, she steps back and sets the tablet down.
“Well,” she says. “It’s not great.”
“Give it to me straight, Ella Crawford. Don’t sugarcoat it.”
“Fine, you’re a fucking mess.”
I grin. “Been called worse.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not here to charm your way out of anything, Tate.”
“Good. That was raw survival instinct.”
She leans against the counter, arms folded. “You’re overcompensating in four different ways. Your body doesn’t trust your leg. And your leg doesn’t trust you.”
“Sounds mutual.”
“Your hamstrings are doing the job of your glutes. Your glutes are on vacation. And your core is—well, it’s showing up, but not enough to carry the team.”
“That was a very nice way of calling me weak.”
She tilts her head. “I’m calling you disconnected. From your own body. From your progress. From your goal.”
“I just want to play again. I’m not ready to retire.”
“Then you’re going to have to work. Not just physically.” She touches her temple. “But mentally, too. I’ll have a team to get you out of that funk.”
Her tone shifts on that last line—drops lower. Sincere. Which is worse than sarcasm. It lands somewhere just beneath my ribs. I wish I could say something or just get out of here because I don’t know if I can work with Scottie while I’m a fucking mess.
She moves back to the table and taps through some settings. Her hair slips over her shoulder, and she catches it with one finger, tucking it behind her ear with more precision than necessary.
“You aren’t my only patient, Tate. You aren’t even the most injured. But you might be the most stubborn.”
“Flattered.”
