Page 31 of Playing for the Hat Trick
The walk down the hallway feels longer than usual.
Every step echoes too loud. Like the floor’s announcing: Ladies and gentlemen, the idiot has arrived.
Room B is looming at the end like Mount fucking Everest. I pause in front of the door, crack my neck, and stretch as if I’m about to run a sprint instead of open a door, then push it open like maybe—just maybe—I’m still in control of something today.
I’m not.
Because Reese isn’t inside.
Nope. It’s Scottie.
And holy fuck, I was not ready.
She’s got her hair clipped up in that twisty thing women do that makes them look like they have secrets and knives. She’s scribbling something on the whiteboard as if it owes her money, and she hasn’t even looked at me yet—but I’d recognize that all-caps handwriting anywhere. Angry little letters that think they’re six feet tall.
There’s a height-adjustable desk next to her, a laptop open on top, glowing as if she’s reading my soul—or worse, charting my failure in real-time.
I could leave.
I should leave.
Every instinct in my body screams to run—like, full-on Olympic sprint, don’t-look-back, fake-my-own-death kind of run.
Instead, I smile. Like I don’t feel the shift in the air. Like her silence doesn’t press against my skin and itch.
“Wow. You clean up nice, Doc,” I say, lounging in the doorway like I wasn’t two seconds from retreating. “Didn’t know you’d be here today. Should I have brought flowers? Chocolate? Those sour Cluster Nerds you inhale when you think no one’swatching? I could bring strawberries if you like—even dip them in chocolate.”
Still nothing.
She keeps writing, dry erase marker squeaking like it’s filing a complaint on my existence.
“Where’s Reese?” I ask, stepping farther into the room like I’m not seconds from setting off a landmine. “Did you wander into the wrong room? Because whoever’s your patient today . . . someone should warn them they’re about to get their soul scrubbed.”
Crickets.
Zero acknowledgment. Not even a side-eye.
Cool. Coolcoolcool.
I drop my backpack beside the treatment table and pull my hoodie over my head. It sticks around the brace, takes a second to wiggle free. My shirt rides up with it, just enough to flash skin and scar.
And there it is.
A glance.
Quick. But not that quick.
Her eyes drop—barely a second, maybe less—but they move.
Yeah, she looked.
Victory? No. But I’ll take it.
Still . . . nothing. No hello. No smart-ass retort. Not even a ‘nice abs, Tate.’ I’m tempted to suggest, ‘Let’s do a little exchange: I showed you mine, now show me yours.’ But I’m thinking that if I say that, I might end up with not only another knee broken but probably also a rib or two.
She clicks the marker closed and turns around.
Her face is a brick wall. There’s no curve in her lips, no softening in her eyes. It’s just clinical calm with a dash of you’re-a-fucking-nightmare.
