Page 28 of Playing for the Hat Trick
What the fuck is he scared of?
The guy could ride for two more years, maybe three. Then, transition into the league as staff or player development. Hell, he could probably call games if he wanted.
His stubbornness screams of trauma. This is why I sent him to Dr. Parker. Has he even reached out to her?
“Let me think about what I want to do with him.”
My voice scratches out, low and reluctant, like it’s dragging its heels across gravel. Reese nods as if I said yes instead of maybe. Then she walks off—like she’s been waiting for me to come to my senses.
I probably will regret this.
But I also can’t sit back and watch him sabotage his career because no one else had the courage to slap the grenade out of his hand.
Once alone, I wake my laptop from its nap and dive into Jason Tate’s notes. It doesn’t take long to find Eliza’s evaluation. And, God help me, it reads like a final obituary.
Eliza isn’t one for dramatics. She’s precise.
But this?
This isn’t clinical.
This is a fucking eulogy.
Despite passing all physical benchmarks, the client exhibits consistent physiological distress in anticipation of exertion. Neural pathways appear conditioned to anticipate failure, not just pain. Presents with severe performance-related trauma. Trust in body = fractured. Emotional deregulation during physical milestones = high.
Current assigned PT team unable to stabilize. Recommendation: athlete requires high-tier trauma-informed physical therapy with elite-athlete language fluency. Must be someone who understands identity displacement in post-injury regression.
Suggested lead therapist: Ella Crawford.
I stare at that last line. Read it once. Twice. Third time’s the charm, and then . . .
“Fuck.”
It slips out on a sigh that sounds way too much like surrender.
This isn’t fair.
But neither is watching a guy bleed out emotionally while everyone keeps handing him Band-Aids and bad advice.
Can I even help someone who’s made a full-time job out of resisting help?
I clench my jaw. Not because I’m angry. Because I know what Eliza saw. What Dr. Park saw. What every goddamn therapist worth their certification sees when they look at Jason Tate.
He’s not just scared of pain. He’s terrified of hope.
I’ve seen it before. Runners flinching at the memory of a snapped hamstring. Gymnasts choking on their breath mid-vault. Soccer players hearing the echo of an ACL tear every time they plant a foot.
And, yeah—I’ve been there too. I lived there. I was the girl who broke and didn’t think she deserved to be put back together. I crawled out of that hole with my teeth bared, my knuckles torn, and a rehab team who refused to let me quit when I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.
But that’s the thing. I’m not that girl anymore. Also, I’m not here to save people who want to stay broken.
Still, I created this program to rebuild what’s collapsed—whether it’s knees, confidence, or someone’s entire identity. I don’t have to be Jason’s cheerleader.
I just have to make sure he doesn’t crash alone.
God, I know what it’s like to crash alone.
I hate that I know it. Hate more that someone important to Leif might end up there, too.
