Page 4 of Playing for the Hat Trick
The receptionist smiles the way people do when they see a man in a knee brace and designer joggers—equal parts pity and passive judgment, with a splash ofIs that cologne at seven in the morning?
Simply put, it’s sympathy with a condescending garnish.
And, yes, it’s cologne at seven in the fucking morning because my sponsorship requires me to wear it at all times. The last thing I need is for someone to fuck with my endorsements just because I forgot to follow the requirements.
“Do you need help with the elevator?” she asks, overly polite.
“No,” I grunt, shifting my grip on the crutches. “Just directions to the floor where they fix dignity.”
She doesn’t laugh. That’s fine. I’m not here for a standing ovation. I’m here because I lost a fight with a sock, spilled coffee on my last clean T-shirt, and fired my physical therapist for telling me to visualize my recovery arc.
Spoiler: it looks less like a comeback and more like a flatline drawn by a very sleepy toddler with a crayon.
I drag myself—literally—to the waiting area, nod to the juice bar guy like we’re old war buddies, and collapse into one of the leather chairs with the grace of a narcoleptic walrus. My knee throbs in protest, my pride limps beside me, and my patience has already fled the scene around 6:15 a.m.
This place is nicer than the last clinic. Cleaner. Fancier. There’s eucalyptus in the air and real turf on the rehab floor. It smells like money and false hope.
Which is perfect because false hope is the only thing I haven’t tried.
I’ve done everything else: elevation, electro-stim, ice baths, foam rollers that feel like medieval torture, aquatherapy with an ex-Olympian whose vibe screamed ‘motivational poster’ but delivered zero inspiration, supplements that tasted like flavored regret.
I’ve fucking visualized.
I’ve fucking meditated.
I’ve grunted and groaned and gritted my way through every rep.
Even after all that work, I’m still benched, still braced, and still not back.
It’s been eleven months.
Eleven. Fucking. Months.
That’s nearly a year of watching my career unravel in slow motion. The surgery happened two weeks after the injury. It went “well,” according to the notes. Then came the setbacks: Swelling. Fluid buildup. Cartilage issues. Nerve issues. Trust issues—with my own body.
Everyone keeps throwing blind optimism at me like confetti.
“You’ll be back in no time, Tate.”
“Your career’s not over.”
“Comeback of the season. It’s going to be the year when Jason Tate goes all out.”
I’ve heard it all. From my trainer. My agent. Even my parents—who seriously suggested turmeric, crystals, and “positive vibes” like I’m spraining my aura, not my ACL. Every day, Mom forwards me some social media posts about “healing frequencies,” as if I’m going to Bluetooth my knee back into shape. I get it. No one wants to be the person who says, “Hey, maybe you won’t make it back.”
But here’s the thing: the team doctors stopped saying “soon” two months ago.
Now, they mention things like pain management, long-term mobility, and quality of life with clinical smiles that fail to reach their eyes.
What they’re really saying is: “We don’t believe in you anymore. But we’re too polite to admit it.”
So, they pat my shoulder and talk about next season while looking over my head. They use words like leadership, mentorship, and locker room presence, which is code forthanks for the memories, but we’re probably moving on.
I’m thirty-four, not old—definitely not finished.
But in a league that treats injuries like expiration dates, I might as well be walking around with a red CLEARANCE sticker slapped across my chest. And when you’re the guy with once-impressive stats and a knee that creaks louder than a haunted house floorboard, you stop getting eye contact. You stop being part of the plan.
You stop mattering.
