Page 6 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“What do you need?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral but struggling.
Jacob says, “I’ve been looking into options.”
“For what, exactly? Early retirement? Should I start designing my farewell merch?”
“For rehab,” he says, unfazed by my sarcasm. “A new one. Specialized.”
I nearly laugh, but it comes out more like a scoff. “We did specialized. Remember Phoenix? BecauseI’m still in fucking Phoenix.Still stuck here. Still pretending pool noodles are a treatment and not the tools of emotional warfare.” I pause. “I had night terrors about water aerobics last week. I still flinch when I see foam.”
“This isn’t pool noodles,” Jacob says, and something shifts—subtly—in his tone.
I narrow my eyes. “What is it, then?”
“Someone owes me a favor . . . for you, I can call it in and get you into this treatment.”
That gives me pause. Jacob doesn’t do vague favors; he deals in contracts and control. If this is coming from someone else, it’s because he needs something I won’t like.
“From who?” I ask, suspicion curling low in my gut.
He doesn’t answer right away, which is its own kind of answer.
“I’m not telling you yet,” he finally says. “Because if I do, you’ll say no.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you will sabotage your recovery just to prove a point.”
“I prefer to call that integrity.”
“Call it whatever the fuck you want. But we’re out of time. You keep delaying this, and it won’t matter what plans we make. There won’t be a comeback.”
His words land hard on my chest, pushing all the air out of my lungs, not because they’re cruel, but because they’re true. I glance down at the brace that swallows my leg. It used to be muscle, speed, and purpose. Now, it’s just this foreign thing I carry around. My crutches lean against the chair like loyal dogs—always there to catch me when I can’t keep going.
And then, for the first time in longer than I’m comfortable admitting, I allowed myself to want something again. Not just the absence of pain. Not just survival.
I want more.
I close my eyes. I don’t pray—I’m not that guy—but I hope. And fuck, does that feel dangerous.
“Fine,” I say quietly. “Set it up.”
There’s a brief pause as if Jacob’s surprised I didn’t put up more of a fight.
“You sure?”
“No.” I open my eyes again, staring at the ceiling like it has answers. “But I’m tired of sitting still.”
“All right,” he says, shifting into action mode. “I’ll get you a charter out of Phoenix. You’ll be back in New York by tomorrow.”
Something in my chest loosens just hearing that. New York. I haven’t been back in months. I haven’t seen my parentsin person since Jacob shipped me out to LA for the first failed treatment. I haven’t even crashed on Leif’s couch with a controller in my hand and a half-eaten pizza on the table between us. Okay, that hasn’t happened since he became a father, but I can only hope that we can hang out again.
Maybe it’s stupid to think being closer to home will make this easier. But it’s something, and right now, something is more than I’ve had in a while.
Chapter Three
Scottie
New Patient? No Problem . . . Unless It’s Jason Fucking Tate
