Page 25 of Playing for the Hat Trick
A few heads turn. The other clients pretend not to listen, but the energy shifts. Everyone recognizes the vibe of when someone’s about to lose it in PT. It’s a cocktail of frustration, ego, and pain. Served warm and loud.
Alex tries to keep his voice calm. “Your metrics show you can handle this load.”
“Your metrics also said I should be jogging by now. I still limp when I get out of bed.”
“That’s normal?—”
“Don’t,” I snap, voice rising. “Don’t tell me what’s normal. You ever had your entire career ripped out from under you? You ever had to pretend to be ‘grateful’ for fucking lateral steps while your entire timeline slips further away every week?”
He stiffens, professionalism flickering behind his eyes. “We’re not pretending. This is part of the process.”
I laugh. It’s not a good sound. Bitter. Exhausted. “You want to know the process? Wake up sore. Tape the brace. Try not tothink about how it used to be easy. Then come in here and let everyone act like you’re making ‘progress’ while you know damn well you’re plateauing.”
A silence fills the room. Not awkward. Not tense.
Resigned.
Like they’ve seen this before.
Like I’m just the next burnout case.
Alex takes a careful step closer. “Jason, we’re trying to help you.”
“No. You’re trying to pass me through your system so you can tick a box and call it a success story.”
“You’ve skipped three post-session stretch blocks in the last week.”
“Because they’re a joke.”
“You refused dry needling. Rejected mobility scans. Didn’t complete the neuro-reflex drill last session.”
I stare him down. “Because none of it’s helping.”
He holds my gaze. “Or because you’re afraid it might.”
Something inside me freezes.
Because that?
That was too close.
“Take the rest of the hour,” he says, voice gentler now. “Reset. We’ll circle back at the next block.”
I don’t answer.
Just walk out, dragging the brace with me and limping down the hall like a guy who no longer belongs here.
I slam the locker room door behind me and lean both hands against the sink, staring into a mirror that doesn’t recognize me.
I look older. Not in the grey-hair, life-experience way. In the hollow way.
Like someone scraped all the fight out of me and left a facsimile in branded joggers.
I grip the edge of the sink. My fingers ache. My knee throbs. My heart—yeah, that’s the worst part. It does that annoying thing where it clenches as if I just lost a game I didn’t know I was playing.
Again.
Every session feels like a loss, and I can’t keep pretending that something good will ever happen. This. Is. Fucking. It. My career is over, and I might as well figure out how to start from scratch again.
