Page 1 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Chapter One
Scottie
No Pain. No Gain . . . Or So They Say
There are three types of pain in this world:
The pain you bleed for.
The pain you fake with a wince.
Then there’s my own—custom-made, brutally effective.
“Again,” I say, voice flat as a deadlift bar, wrapped in Lycra and just enough rage to keep my heart rate in the red zone.
George Wright—wide receiver, championship ring collector, and a walking ego in athletic pro shorts—groans from the therapy mat as if he’s giving birth to his pride.
His hamstring twitches. His jaw flexes. But it’s not the strain that affects him. It’s the humiliation of sweating in front of a five-foot-five rehab demon with a clipboard and no patience for excuses—that’d be me.
“The rumors are all true,” he hisses between clenched teeth. “You’re not human.”
“I’m not,” I reply without blinking. “I’m a performance machine built from heartbreak, dry shampoo, and bulk-ordered protein powder.”
Across the gym, his social media person films the session as if it’s just another day in the life of George Wright. Which, lately, it is. He comes every other day to get his ass kicked so he can be back on the field soon. That’s precisely what we do in this practice. We provide hope and a curated playlist—not Top 40, not lo-fi, and absolutely no sad acoustic covers of pop hits. My music is engineered for one purpose: discipline with a hint of delusion. Enough to make you believe you can outrun your physical pain, the trauma, and maybe even your ex.
“Scottie,” Em calls from the front desk. “There’s someone here demanding an urgent eval. Name-dropping Jacob McCallister and some Mathieu something? Says it’s about a clearance waiver?”
Em is new, so she wouldn’t know who either of those names refers to. One is my agent, and the other is my dad. I raise a hand mid-rep, not even bothering to turn. “Tell them I’m booked until the next ice age. Or until George finishes crying. Whichever takes longer.”
George attempts to give me a deadly glare, but it merely comes out as a small, painful grunt. It’s so lovely to see a grown man cry.
“Copy that,” she deadpans. “Doomsday calendar, it is.”
This? This is what I live for. The sweat. The grind. The impossible metrics. Being the final line of defense between an elite athlete and early retirement. I don’t do half-assed healing or slow clap comebacks. I rebuild champions. Or I bury their delusions with a soft-tissue release and a politely worded reality check like, “I think it’s time we talk about your legacy . . . off the field.”
“Bob, at thirty-nine, maybe it’s time to explore a second act. Have you considered philanthropy? Or perhaps . . . being present for your children?”
Hey, I don’t make the rules. I just break the news—with good posture and a solid understanding of human anatomy.
My name is Ella Crawford, but everyone who knows me—really knows me—calls me Scottie.
The daughter of John Crawford, a legendary NFL quarterback who became a motivational speaker and can still throw a perfect spiral—as well as deliver a life lesson in under sixty seconds. And then there’s Mathieu Scott Laferty, who was one of the most dominant hockey players in the league. I’m the daughter of two Hall of Famers.
But the cleats? The gold medal? The U.S. Women’s Soccer legacy? That’s all mine. I didn’t inherit the spotlight—I earned it, shin guards and all.
Legacy isn’t something I inherited. It’s something I bled for. When I lost my soccer career, I didn’t just lose my place on the field—I lost the version of myself who believed I was unbreakable.
Tore my ACL in the eighty-seventh minute of a championship match. One wrong step. One sickening twist and, just like that, the dream I’d bled for snapped in two—loud enough to drown out the crowd.
Rehab? Rehab was hell. It chipped away at my body and steamrolled my confidence. I questioned everything—my worth, my future, and every too-cheerful promise handed down by someone in scrubs with a clipboard and zero skin in the game.
But where most people see rock bottom, I see blueprints.
So, I built something better.
Laferty Performance & Recovery isn’t just a rehab center—it’s a sanctuary for the stubborn, the broken, and the not-fucking-done. The place you crawl to when the team docs give up and the endorsement deals start vanishing.
I own every inch of this facility—every machine, every protocol, every inch of turf. I know each athlete’s baseline, every tendon’s tolerance, and every lie they attempt to stretch past me.
