Page 56 of Playing for the Hat Trick
It was one time.
Okay, two.
Fine. Thrice in the last twelve hours. Two with my vibrator. Once in the shower. But I’m not telling her that.
Reese grabs a protein bar off my desk and slides it toward me like it’s emotional triage. “Okay. Game plan. You’re going to wear your baggiest scrubs, chant activation patterns until your libido forgets how to spell, and avoid being within a foot of his penis at all times.”
I sigh. “That’s not helpful.”
“But it’s accurate.”
And just like that, the truth hits me.
Jason Tate—cocky, complicated, heartbreak-wrapped-in-a-recovery-plan Jason Tate—isn’t just a patient.
He’s a relapse fantasy.
So maybe . . . maybe, I let it happen. Let the fantasy burn hot and fast. Live it. Own it. And move on.
I mean, he’s here. He’s tangible. And he’s looking at me like I’m not just helping him heal, but like I’m dinner.
Maybe it’s time I let him have me as the main fucking course. But would that be smart? If I let him have me once, I’m scared I won’t know how to stop. How not to want him more than I do right now.
Chapter Eighteen
Jason
The One Where She Accidentally Touched My Soul—and My Thigh
The clinic at night is quieter. Cleaner. But it still hums—with something sharp and electric. Something that smells like citrus and walks like temptation in joggers.
I lean against the treatment table, arms crossed, watching the door like I’ve got even a fraction of control over when Scottiewalks in. Obviously, I don’t. I’ve never had control when it comes to her. Especially not after she’s been actively, strategically, and professionally avoiding me for two fucking days.
Sure, on paper, I didn’t have an official session scheduled until today. But she could’ve seen me Monday. Or Tuesday. I swung by to pick up resistance bands—ones I absolutely didn’t need—and her receptionist told me she was in. No clients. No emergencies. Just . . . unavailable.
Apparently, unavailable now means ‘don’t let the horny, mouthy patient in because I might jump him in front of the filing cabinet.’
I’d find it flattering if I weren’t half-mad about it.
The door finally swings open, and she walks—like a storm disguised in joggers and a hoodie. Hair piled up like she shoved it into the twist with her car keys. Mouth drawn. Eyes hard. She’s here for business.
But I see it.
The tension riding her shoulders. The grip on her bag. The way her gaze snags on me for just a second too long before she looks away.
She’s here, but she’s not calm, and, fuck, I like her like this.
I nod toward the mat. “So this your idea of foreplay now? Ghosting me for forty-eight hours?”
Scottie drops her bag on the chair, calm as ever. “You were scheduled for earlier today, not sure why you changed the time.”
So, she decided to listen to just part of what I said, and I let it go . . . for now.
“I’m here,” she adds, arms folded now, stance like she’s ready to throw me across the room. “So. We doing this or not?”
“We doing what exactly?” I push off the table, stepping closer, watching the tension ripple through her frame. “Stretching my hamstring or testing how far you can push me before I stop pretending this is just rehab?”
“Whichever gets you out of that god complex and back into shape.”
