Page 5 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I exhale, head tipping back against the cushion. Above, a screen displays silent fitness promos, likely filmed in this very facility—beautiful people with perfect bodies performing lunges in coordinated sets. Not one crutch in sight.
I used to be that guy.
Now I’m a cautionary tale in limited edition joggers.
And, yeah. I’m pissed.
I’m fucking exhausted. Of pretending like I’m not scared. Of faking swagger that I no longer feel. Of waking up every day wondering if this is the one where someone finally says it out loud:You’re done.
The thing is, I’m not done. I don’t want to be done.
Let them doubt me. Let the whispers grow. Let them draft someone faster, younger, and made of goddamn Teflon.
I’m still here. I didn’t claw my way through eleven months of setbacks and soul-searching just to roll over now.
So, no—I don’t need help with the elevator.
What I need is a plan.
A miracle.
Or a really, really stubborn physical therapist who doesn’t believe in giving up.
My brace squeaks with every third step. The crutches dig into my ribs because I refuse to give them up, and my PT keeps telling me that I’m compensating too much.
“Let go of the crutches,” he said last week. “You’re leaning on them like a security blanket.”
Yeah . . . well, maybe I need a damn blanket. I’d rather hobble than fall. I’d prefer aching over admitting I’m afraid of what might happen if I actually try to walk and fail again.
Jacob McCallister, my agent, has started tossing around the word “retirement” as if it’s a gentle suggestion rather than a verbal gut punch.
Yesterday, during one of his classic pep talks disguised as a business strategy, he remarked, “Jason, we need to be realistic.”
Which, in agent-speak, roughly translates to:Let’s talk brand management, repackaging your legacy, shifting your public image. Let’s make peace with Plan B.
But I don’t want a fucking Plan B. I want the life I had before my knee decided to betray me. I want to lace up again. I want the crackle of the ice under my skates, the crowd’s roar echoing in my chest, and the clean satisfaction of doing the one thing I’ve ever been great at. I want to be Jason Tate, pro hockey player—not Jason Tate, has-been.
The waiting room hums around me with that particular energy only orthopedic offices can conjure. Stale, silent, clinical. I shift in my chair, trying to find something resembling comfort, which is impossible when your brace makes a mechanical thunk every time you move like a warning bell telling you your body’s not yours anymore.
Just as I’m about to give up and brace—no pun intended—for another round of waiting room purgatory, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Jacob.
I stare at the screen for two rings before answering. Long enough to let him know he’s not on my list of people I’m thrilled to hear from today.
“What the fuck do you want? It’s too early for more bad news, and if you tell me another sponsor pulled out, I might fire you.”
Jacob releases a very irritating laugh. “Charming as always. How the hell are you this morning?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Just peachy. Practically radiating fucking sunshine.”
“Ah. So, you’re lying and angry at the world. Classic Jason.”
“I’m fucking delightful.”
“Debatable.”
I exhale, the sound low and uneven as I shift again. The brace on my leg locks with a dull, final click. That noise has started to feel like punctuation—like a period at the end of a sentence that used to be a whole paragraph.
