Page 20 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“I’m just saying, if there’s a rewards program, I’d like to know what I’m earning. Emotional stability? A coffee mug that says ‘Talk Feelings to Me’?”
She doesn’t laugh. Not really. But her mouth tilts slightly as if she’s fighting the urge. “Is that how you start all your therapy sessions? Asking for an end date?”
“I’ve never been in talk therapy in my life,” I admit, and the truth of it hangs in the air, weirdly heavier than I expected. “This is my first.”
“Noted. But it’s a broad question. Sounds like it’s not just about therapy, but all the PT you’ve been doing since you were cleared to start.”
I nod once, resisting the urge to cross my arms like a moody teenager. “Yeah. I work better with structure. Mostly timelines. If I can see the target, I know how hard to push.”
That earns a softer smile—understanding on the surface, but there’s something else behind it. Something I’m not in on. She taps something on her tablet, then looks back at me.
“Well, that’s your first homework assignment.”
“Homework?”
“Think about your goals. But not in terms of time. Think about them in terms of achievements.”
I blink. “You want me to, what, manifest my healed self into existence?”
“I want you to think about what success looks like—without measuring it in days or deadlines.”
That hits wrong. Twists something behind my ribs in a way I don’t like.
Because if I’m not working toward a date on the calendar, if there’s no countdown to better, then I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. No finish line? No clarity? No endgame?
Just vibes and vulnerability?
I shift again, my brace clicking faintly as if trying to echo my discomfort. “What if I don’t know what that looks like?”
Dr. Park tilts her head. “Then we start there.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I walked in here thinking I’d get a prescription for mental toughness and some affirmation flashcards. Instead, I’m leaving with a reminder that I have no idea what the hell I want.
Except maybe to feel like myself again.
Whoever the fuck that even is.
Chapter Eight
Jason
Stretch, Surrender, Spiral
I’m ten minutes late for the fucking yoga class Reese insisted I try today. Something called somatic release flow—a magical combination of breathwork, movement, and emotional excavation that’s supposed to “unlock trauma stored in the body.”
So, basically, I stretch until I cry. Cool.
I’d love to say I’m late because of traffic. Or because the brace slowed me down. Or the iced-over sidewalk outside my building that someone undeniably got paid to salt and absolutely did not.
But no.
I’m late because I didn’t want to come—and I’m not sorry.
Yesterday’s PT session with Reese pushed me harder than I was ready for. By the time I got home, all I had left was a throbbing knee and a body that refused to settle. Tylenol didn’t help. Neither did the hot shower, ice packs, turmeric tea, or that foam roller Reese insists works miracles.
I’m over it. All of it. What’s the point of all this bullshit if it’s just a slow, humiliating descent into ‘maybe’?
