Page 30 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“You know I’m not a miracle worker, right?” I say. “I can’t pull rainbows out of trauma.”
“You pulled a national team comeback out of a torn hamstring and a fractured ego.”
“Don’t forget the reputation damage and mild identity crisis.”
“Exactly. You’re perfect for this job,” he states. “So . . . you’ll do it?”
I groan. Loudly. Like I’m being asked to crawl through emotional burning coal barefoot and smiling. Which, to be fair, I am.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Ella.” And that shakes me up a little because Leif never calls me by my name. Never.
“Fine. I’ll help him.” I sigh. “But if he throws one tantrum, I’m drop-kicking him into the pool.”
Leif snorts. “Just ensure it’s the shallow end, or he’s wearing floaties.”
We hang up, and I’m left staring at my laptop screen again. Jason’s file is open like a challenge I didn’t mean to accept, but I already feel too responsible to walk away from it.
I don’t know what the hell I’m walking into with him.
But I know what it feels like to lose everything you built—what it means to claw your way back when no one’s sure you’re worth the trouble.
Whether Jason Tate wanted it or not, he just became my problem.
Chapter Eleven
Jason
In Case of Emergency, Use Your Safe Word
I’m fucking up my life.
Like, epically.
Leif called me last night just to tell me he’s putting his ass on the line. Those are his actual words. Do I know what they mean? Fuck, no. He added, “Stop self-destructing, or I’m flying out to break your other knee.”
Not sure if that was a joke. He said it with the voice he saves for penalty shots and family emergencies. And knowing him, he’ll bring snacks to my hospital room afterward like that makes it okay.
Then Jacob called me this morning. It made everything feel like a tag-team intervention. His message was clear: he didn’t call in one of his sacred favors so I could fuck up my life and treat rehab like it’s optional and it’s okay to fuck off my life.
He threatened to fire me if I didn’t pull my head out of my ass. Or maybe he said he’d put my head up my ass. Hard to tell—he was pissed and mumbling incoherently.
So, yeah. Skipping therapy today? Off the table.
I even showed up early. Gold star for me, right? But the second I walk in, I know something’s off.
Nobody looks at me.
The new front desk girl—the one with the small voice and marshmallow boundaries—gives me this smile like she’s about to apologize for my dog running away. All tight lips and awkward eye contact. It’s the kind of smile you give someone who just got dumped via text . . . on Valentine’s Day.
Behind her, one of the aides is furiously reorganizing resistance bands. She’s yanking them off hooks with unnecessary aggression. Pretty sure one just snapped and flew into the supply closet. Nobody reacts.
Even the playlist is wrong. Typically, it’s hype pop or something stupidly upbeat. Today? It’s whispery acoustic guitar and lyrics about losing yourself—real subtle, guys.
“Room B,” the receptionist says, eyes darting like I might run.
I nod once. No jokes, no wink, just the limp of a man who knows he’s walking into a trap and forgot his helmet. Another no-crutches day. Just me, a brace that pinches every time Ibreathe, and a knee that may or may not betray me like an ex with a grudge.
