Page 32 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“Where’s Reese?” I ask again, straighter this time.
“Not here, obviously.” She glances at her hands, then at me. “She transferred your file.”
Something pulls behind my ribs—tight and wrong. “So . . . who am I working with today?”
“Me.”
That’s kind of funny because the last time we discussed my rehab, she said something along the lines of ‘dead before I take you under my wing.’ Okay, it wasn’t that dramatic, but it landed somewhere around there. I, of course, laugh. Not because it’s funny. It’s not. But because what else am I supposed to do?
“That’s hilarious,” I mutter. “Great joke, but it’s not April Fool’s, and I don’t think anyone pulls pranks on that day anymore.”
She doesn’t blink. “It’s not a joke.”
“You said no.” It slips out before I can shape it into something safer. “You made a whole thing about how I wasn’t your responsibility. You didn’t want the headache.”
“I still don’t,” she says, brushing invisible lint from her leggings. “But congratulations, Jason Tate. You’ve managed to piss off everyone else in this practice. No one wants to work with you.”
“So I’m your pity case?”
Her eyes flick up—quick, clean, zero hesitation. “Do I look like I’m here to hold your hand?”
No. No, she fucking does not.
That shuts me up longer than I’d like to admit.
She turns back to her desk—the adjustable one, raised halfway like she planned to alternate between murdering my dignity sitting and standing. Her laptop’s still open, casting a glow over the disaster that is probably my file. She grabs the folder—my folder—and holds it out like it might catch fire if she touches it for too long.
“Three PTs have flagged you,” she says, voice as cool as the AC vent humming overhead. “You walked out on two mid-session. Reese filed a formal hold after you bailed halfway through a set and told her she had the motivational energy of a sea sponge. Want me to keep going?”
I lift a brow. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
She levels me with a stare that could sterilize surgical tools. “You called one guy a ‘glorified gym bro with a CEO complex.’”
I wince. “Okay. That one I remember.”
“You’re impossible,” she says, flipping the folder open like she’s preparing to dissect me in public. “But you’re not unfixable. Which is why I’m here.”
“Because you care?”
“No. I’m here because I promised my brother I’d help you.” She huffs. “But, also because you deserve better than the bullshit you’re pulling to sabotage your career. You didn’t work your ass to end up losing everything to an injury because you can’t get past your fear.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. It’s as if her words punched me so hard I can’t even pull air back into my lungs. Is she right? Am I sabotaging myself because of fear? I . . . but she kind of cares, doesn’t she?
My mouth quirks. “Wow. That’s romantic.”
“Do not flirt with me, Tate, or I’ll make every other muscle in your body soar, and not in a good way.” She smirks for half a second—half a second—before snapping the folder shut.
“God, that’s hot.”
“Stop using humor as a defense mechanism.” And then she adds, quieter, “You’re on the edge, Jason. If I don’t take you on, they’ll drop you. The team—and I’m not talking about this PT.”
Of course not. She means the Vipers.
“Then maybe they should,” I say. “Would make it easier for everyone.”
There’s something behind her eyes now. Not pity. Maybe it’s disappointment.
She steps forward, stopping just in front of me. Not close enough to crowd me, but close enough that I feel it.
