Page 19 of Playing for the Hat Trick
But Dr. Park nods once, smooth as a poker player.
“That’s a start,” she says, her voice even. No pity. No bullshit. “But it’s more than the limp. You’re still using the crutches and still wearing the brace. You passed every strength and balance test. Functional movement? Cleared. Single-leg hops? Cleared. But your body’s still pulling back. You’re protecting something that’s not physically at risk anymore.”
“So . . . I’m a head case.”
“No,” she says with a look that tells me I’m not even in the top ten of dumbass athletes she’s had to walk through this. “You were injured. That’s different.”
I point to my leg. “Still injured.”
“Technically?” She tilts her head. “No.”
She leans forward slightly, tapping her pen against the tablet like she’s deciding how deep to go without losing me. “You were injured when it happened. You had surgery. Rehab. You hit all your physical milestones. The thing is . . . your brain didn’t get the memo. Your body’s moving like you’re waiting for pain. Anticipating it. Guarding against something that’s no longer there.”
I shift on the couch, which somehow feels more like a stage now. “So now it’s all in my head?”
“Not all,” she says, tone calm but pointed. “But enough to interrupt recovery.”
Great. So now I’ve officially joined the ranks of athletes who ghost their potential. I rub a hand over my jaw, pretending like I’m processing but I’m really just stalling.
“So what’s the treatment plan? Magic mantras? Cry it out? Do I start referring to my ACL in the past tense like a dead ex?”
“Maybe,” she replies, deadpan. “Or maybe we start with letting your body re-learn how to trust itself again. We stop reinforcing the fear loop. You’re overcompensating—physically, emotionally, probably even sexually, if we’re being honest.”
I choke on a laugh. “I’m not overcompensating sexually.”
Her brow arches.
“I’m not.”
She doesn’t push, but the silence feels accusatory in a way that makes my dick twitch with spite. I shift again, less gracefully this time.
“I’m just saying, the brace isn’t part of some long-term kink.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” she says, one corner of her mouth lifting slightly.
“I don’t wear it in bed if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Jason,” she says, her voice velvet-wrapped steel, “you’re not here to convince me you’re still good in bed. You’re here becauseyou don’t believe you’re good on the ice. Though, how’s your life outside the rink?”
There’s no life inside or outside the rink, but I don’t answer any of that. Mostly because I don’t want to bring up something that’s obviously obsolete to my recovery. My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, and for once, I don’t let it run.
She taps on her tablet again, her fingers graceful and efficient. “This isn’t about pretending you’re okay. It’s about retraining your brain to know you’re okay, to trust that you won’t get injured again.”
I want to argue that this isn’t what I’m thinking, but honestly, I’ve never stopped to think shit through. So what’s the point of taking the conversation to that place? “So, like rehab, but for my brain.”
“Exactly.”
I laugh, but it’s more air than actual humor. “Terrific. Can’t wait for brain squats and emotional lunges.”
“You’d be surprised,” she replies without blinking. “Emotional lunges have great glute engagement.”
“Is that supposed to make me want to do them? Because if we’re talking glutes, I’d rather be putting mine to work doing something that doesn’t involve unpacking my childhood and crying into tissues from a fancy box.”
Dr. Park doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just arches a single brow that says,Go ahead, keep deflecting, I’ve got time.
I groan, slouching further into the couch. “So how many of these sessions until I’m fully functional?”
She narrows her eyes. “Not sure if I should be thrilled you lasted more than five minutes this time without making a break for it . . . or mildly offended that you think I have a recovery punch card.”
