Page 2 of Playing for the Hat Trick
You don’t get this far unless you’ve snapped at least once.
And me?
I shattered.
And then I pieced myself back together one PT session at a time, fueled by a vision and a grudge.
Now, I rebuild legends.
Or I send them home with an ice pack and a reality check.
George collapses back against the mat, drenched and panting, his ego pulverized.
“Next time,” I tell him, “bring your A-game.”
“Next time,” he wheezes, “I might bring a priest to perform an exorcism.”
I smirk while handing him a towel. “You’ll need more than holy water to survive this place.”
And just like that, another body breaks—and maybe, just maybe, begins to rebuild.
And I do it well.
Too well, apparently.
As I walk back toward my office, my father is already inside—legs crossed like he owns the place, sipping one of those healthygreen smoothies he swears are rejuvenating. He claims he visits me. Reality? He’s addicted to the juice bar and refuses to admit it. Worse, he’s sitting in my chair.
And going through . . . please, not my files.
“Papa,” I sigh, dropping my water bottle onto the desk. “We’ve talked about boundaries.”
Mathieu Scott Laferty—yes, that Laferty—is deep into his Soft Sweater Era, post-retirement. But don’t let the knitwear fool you. The man still has opinions about every decision I make, from my treatment plans to my Spotify playlist. Yes, I named the clinic after him. John Crawford gets too much airtime with his famous name. I decided that Papa needed something.
“I brought you a smoothie,” he says innocently, as if that excuses him from sitting in my chair. “And I wasn’t looking at your files. I used your printer. Jacob thinks I should do more commercials.”
I squint at the cup. “You really want me to believe that you brought me a smoothie?”
He sips.
I point. “That’s half gone.”
“You need something stronger anyway. You’re looking . . . tight.”
“That’s because I just got screamed at by a man who once signed a fifty-million-dollar contract to catch a ball but might lose it all because he’s afraid to tear a ligament again.”
Papa nods as if this were business as usual. “So, it’s Tuesday.”
I steal the cup and perch on the edge of my desk. “Why are you really here? You could’ve printed your proposals at home. If this is about Sunday brunch, I already RSVP’d. And, yes, I’ll bring a fruit plate and pretend it’s homemade.”
He shrugs. “Just checking in. Since you opened the second performance clinic here in New York, you’ve been . . . busier than usual.”
“Yeah. That was sort of the goal. You know—success, legacy, building an empire, so no one ever says the only Crawford who flamed out was the girl with the cleats?”
That earns a flinch. His dad-guilt reflex is still lightning-fast.
“No one says that.”
I level him with a look.
