Page 3 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Okay, maybe they don’t say it. But they think it. The fall of Ella Crawford: once a rising star, now a rehab queen. I can still hear the crowd holding its breath, the crack in my knee, the commentary that turned overnight from golden girl to cautionary tale.
“They do, Papa,” I say quietly. “Even if they don’t say it out loud.”
He doesn’t argue. Just watches me for a beat, then shifts the conversation like he always does when I’m hovering over the cliff of real feelings.
“Your work is . . . impressive,” he says. “You’ve built something extraordinary.”
“But?”
“But.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “It’s all you build.”
I groan. “Here we go.”
“I’m just saying—there’s a difference between being driven and being emotionally unavailable.”
“Papa, I cried last week during a car commercial. A dog got adopted by a grumpy man with trust issues, and I lost it. Bambi still shatters me. And don’t even get me started on the Friends finale.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“I mean, Rachel finally had her dream job in Paris, and she got off the fucking plane for Ross?” I throw my hands up. “For fucking Ross. Those writers did her dirty. That was a crime against character growth. So, yes—I’m plenty emotional.”
He chuckles. “Okay, you’re emotional . . . when it’s fiction.”
“Everyone cries when animals die,” I mutter, appalled.
He leans in, voice softer now. “You’ve built a world where you don’t need anyone. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t share your life with someone.”
I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t a setup, is it? Did Dad put you up to this? Are you about to text me the profile of a ‘very nice orthopedic surgeon who enjoys hiking and golden retrievers’?”
Papa laughs, full belly and all. “No setups. Just concern. You’re a lot like your father—you bury yourself in work until the rest of the world becomes background noise. You can bench-press grief and outmaneuver cocky twenty-somethings. But maybe . . .” He taps my knee gently. “Maybe let someone see the woman behind all this. Not just the badass therapist who resurrects broken bodies, or the entrepreneur who invests in great ideas that become amazing products.”
Before I can roll my eyes, my phone buzzes.
Text from Jacob:Need an evaluation. It’s urgent.
My stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with protein shakes or squat forms.
Papa notices.
“Trouble?”
I tuck the phone away. “Nah. Jacob being . . . Jacob.”
More like Jacob is about to throw me a new patient he thinks I can rescue. No, thank you. But the lingering heat at the back of my neck says otherwise.
Something’s coming.
And I’m not sure if it’s professional, personal, or both.
But whatever it is . . . it’s about to fuck with my schedule. And I don’t do unscheduled; I really don’t.
Chapter Two
Jason
Eleven Fucking Months
“I’m not limping. I’m . . . tactically uneven.”
