Page 13 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“You shouldn’t be.”
I glance around. “So. You’re stuck with me?”
“No.” There’s something in her voice—amusement, maybe. Regret, probably. “You’re not my client. Not yet. I’ll do the full eval, write the notes, and pass you off to someone on staff.”
I arch a brow. “Why not you?”
“Because I don’t take on grumpy has-beens who also happen to be best friends with my older brother.”
I don’t know if I should feel relieved or insulted. “So, what you’re saying is . . . you’re not good enough to handle my case.”
She levels a glare at me. “I’m not seventeen anymore so that crap doesn’t work on me, Tate. I’m assigning you to a very capable team, and that’s the end of it. Let’s finish your eval.”
But it’s not the end of it.
Not even close. She doesn’t want to deal with me, but I’ll make sure she has to at least see me once a day. Challenge accepted.
Chapter Five
Jason
They sayemotional pain doesn’t appear on MRIs.
Which is a fucking shame, really—because if it did, mine would light up the screen like Christmas at Rockefeller. Bright, blinding, and impossible to ignore.
I step out of Scottie’s clinic slower than I went in, crutches clicking against the pavement like they’re narrating the last ten minutes of my life in Morse code for anyone who wants to laugh at my misery. My knee throbs. My ego throbs harder. Then there’s that other part—deep in the center of my chest—thatstill replays a night that happened over a decade ago like it’s a glitching highlight reel.
That part of me isn’t doing so hot either.
The city blares around me in full sensory assault—cars honking, someone yelling into a Bluetooth headset like it’s two-thousand-and-six, a toddler losing it over a dropped juice pouch. Manhattan is doing the absolute most; I could typically handle it. But right now?
Everything feels overwhelming.
Too loud. Too bright. Too . . . final.
I hover at the curb, my pulse drumming in my throat, and jab at my phone as if it’s to blame for all of this. Jacob’s name lights up, and he picks up by the second ring.
“Jason. You live.”
“Barely,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on the crutch. I sound like I just crawled out of a shopping center during an after-Christmas sale—not a damn PT eval.
He sighs. It’s probably relief and some kind of silentthank fuck.“How was it?”
“Thorough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Scottie—who you failed to mention would be seeing me—joked about goat yoga and told me a team would be in touch.” I pause, then clarify, “A team. Not her. Just . . . a vague, disembodied team.”
“Oh. I thought she’d be the one . . .” His voice trails off, like even he doesn’t believe that anymore.
“Scottie Crawford isn’t a fan,” I state, without filling him in, of course.
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
I scoff. “Pretty sure she wants to toss me off the roof and frame it as an accident.” I try to say it like a joke, but I can’t even disguise its truth.
Jacob laughs anyway because he’s used to me hiding behind sarcasm. “Wouldn’t be the worst PR play. Injured vet. Tragic fall. Come comeback story. Very Lifetime meets the Sports Network. I can work with that.”
