Page 21 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I shove through the sliding glass doors of Laferty Performance & Recovery, with the posture of a man who hasn’t slept, hasn’t stretched, and has no interest in manifesting anything but a donut and a nap. The speakers are pumping a playlist that sounds like it was curated by my mother—who loves Enya, drinks bone broth out of crystal tumblers, and still swears her Himalayan salt lamp cured her TMJ disorder.
The front desk receptionist, who’s new and looks overly dewy, probably named Willow or Sage, looks up with the strained smile usually reserved for chronic latecomers and minor criminals.
“Room C,” she chirps, tapping the screen with pink nails. “They’ve already started.”
Of course, they have.
I give her a nod that translates toYeah, I’m an asshole with zero bandwidth to apologize,and keep walking.
The hallway feels longer than usual. My brace clicks with each uneven step, a quiet cue that I’m crutchless today—on purpose—Dr. Park’s idea of progress. “Step one,” she called it. “Trust the knee. Rebuild the neural pathways.”
Honestly, I think it’s some kind of vengeance because I didn’t do her fucking homework. Though I’m trying.
I really fucking am, but every footfall feels like a dare. Every pressure shift is a whisper in my head:This is the one. This is the step where you fall again. Where it all breaks, and this time, it’ll be permanent.
By the time I reach Room C, I’m sweaty—not from effort, but from the sheer act of existing.
The door creaks as I slip inside, and the room is already dimmed. Warm eucalyptus clings to the air like someone set off a humidifier and an organic spa had a baby. The instructor’s voice floats over a gentle acoustic guitar.
“And as you settle into pigeon pose, allow your hips to open and any stored grief to release from the fascia.”
Grief. From the fascia.
Kill me now.
Everyone’s already mid-pose, folded into themselves like serene little pretzels of healing. I scan the room for a corner where I can die in peace, then limp toward the back, trying not to draw attention.
Spoiler: I fail.
The mat I grab smells faintly of eucalyptus, peppermint, and maybe a past-life regression. I lower myself slowly, wincing as my knee decides to protest, just loud enough to make someone glance my way.
The instructor says nothing when she notices me—no chipper welcome or breathy namaste. Just a quiet nod acknowledging me before she shifts back into her flow like she’s used to late arrivals and men who look like they’d rather be getting a root canal.
Which, for the record, I would.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, already regretting everything. The music is a soft acoustic guitar with maybe a pan flute buriedin there somewhere. The lights are low. Someone two mats over is deep-breathing like they’re trying to summon inner peace and a second orgasm. It’s distracting. It’s weird. It’s also the most impressive core control I’ve seen in weeks.
The instructor’s voice drapes across the room in a slow, even tone.
“Let your body guide you. Movement without judgment. Breath without resistance.”
Movement without resistance.
She’s clearly never worn this brace.
I shift my leg, and the hinge clicks once—a sharp, metallic reminder that I’m still dragging part of my past around with me. I exhale, sit up, then reach down, fingers sliding under the Velcro strap. It makes that familiar rip of sound that earns me one startled glance from across the room.
Yeah. I’m that guy now. This is worse than a cell ringing in the middle of the movie theater.
I loosen the rest quietly and pull the brace free, setting it beside me like a sleeping toddler I don’t want to wake. My knee feels naked. Exposed. Like it might call bullshit and buckle just to prove a point.
I close my eyes. Try to breathe. Try not to think about the fact that I already miss the support—the illusion of safety.
But I came here for something, didn’t I?
Fuck if I know what it is.
The instructor cues a ‘gentle’ spinal twist. I follow, slow and cautious. My hip protests, my quad flares, and my knee? It screams. Not pain exactly, but something tight. Protective.
