Page 14 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“What the fuck, McCallister?”
“Too far?”
“Ya think?”
He chuckles, and I grip the parking meter beside me before I say something dumb like,Can you bring me whiskey and maybe a hug?
I stare through the glass doors behind me.
Hoping she doesn’t come out.
Hoping she does.
I hate feeling this way—like some idiot who never realized how to let go. But Scottie always had a way of getting under my skin and staying there—like a bad hit I never fully recovered from.
“I think that’s the issue,” I say, dragging my eyes away from the entrance. “She’s not taking me on.”
“She will.” Jacob’s voice is annoyingly confident. “She’s Scottie. She doesn’t do easy.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
There’s a pause. A guy walking by mutters something about sidewalks not being personalized benches. I could flip him off, but I just shifted half an inch to the left. And give him a look that says,Happy?
“You really think I can do this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Jacob doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, but more importantly—you want to.”
And that shuts me up. He’s right. Wanting this—really wanting it—means signing up for more than just the rehab. It means pain, risk, and the very real possibility of falling flat onmy face. But it also means her. If Scottie Crawford is my last shot, then it’s not just my knee I’m gambling with—it’s every part of me I’ve tried to bury for the last ten years.
The thought lands somewhere deep. Not painful, exactly—just off-kilter, like something shifted when I wasn’t looking.
I hang up without saying goodbye because that’s who I am lately. Cranky. Tired. Stripped of whatever charm people used to think I had.
Back in the apartment, everything feels too still.
An open protein bar is abandoned on the counter, hardened at the edges like a metaphor for my career. The half-drunk water bottle I left earlier sweats on the granite. My rehab notebook sits on the table—a page titled ‘Milestones I Should’ve Hit By Now.’ I stare at the scribbled bullet points until they blur.
I should stop journaling. Or at least stop pretending it’s motivating me enough to progress. The air’s stale. Too warm. And I’m suddenly hyperaware of how quiet everything is when there’s no rink, no teammates yelling over one another, no chirping about drills or line changes. No stupid pre-game playlists blaring in the locker room.
Just me.
And the way failure hangs in the air like it owns the lease.
I lower myself onto the couch like I’m defusing a bomb—the brace squeaks in protest, a mechanical whimper. The crutches hit the floor with a dull thunk I feel somewhere in my chest. I lean back, legs outstretched, and grab my phone.
I should’ve done this yesterday. Fuck, I should’ve done it weeks ago, back when Jacob first mentioned the favor he was calling in. I open the clinic’s website.
It has a minimalist design with neutral tones like the place is advertising:I’m not intimidating, but I’m here to heal you while looking cool as hell doing it.The scrolling banner flashes images of state-of-the-art equipment, sunlit treatment rooms with reformers and resistance racks, cryotherapy pods, and a hyperbaric chamber that looks like it belongs in a superhero movie. There’s a turf track and a vertical jump station. It screams elite-level rehab—not country club fluff.
I pause on a video.
Scottie.
Hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand. She’s moving through a group session like she was born doing it—correcting form, tapping into muscle memory, pushing without ever raising her voice. She’s focused, composed, and unapologetically in control.
She’s good. I mean, she’s always been good at everything she does, but witnessing it?
It hits different.
