Page 33 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“I won’t let you ruin yourself to prove a point.”
Silence.
Scottie doesn’t say anything. Just moves to the corner of the room, organizes a few bands on the wall like she isn’t waiting to see if I’ll implode or cooperate. Like she didn’t just throw my entire rehab back under a microscope—and put herself behind the lens.
I don’t move.
Not yet.
My fingers tighten around the folder. It’s heavier than it looks. Or maybe that’s just the shit inside it—the paper trail of every failure I’ve racked up since the surgery.
All of it is here.
Every missed rep. Every note about “resistance to protocol.” Every subtle, clinical way of saying,He doesn’t want to get better.
They think I’m afraid of pain.
They’re wrong.
I’m afraid of getting better and still not being enough.
“Sit,” she says eventually, not looking at me.
I lower myself onto the bench, muscles stiff and locked, posture garbage. The brace digs into my shin like it’s trying to mark territory. I’m halfway between boiling and exhausted, and she’s acting like this is just another session.
It’s not.
This is the moment everything starts to unravel.
And she knows it.
“I’ve read your logs,” she says. “Watched the footage. Reviewed the drills you’ve skipped and the ones you’ve butchered on purpose.”
I bristle. “I didn’t butcher?—”
“Jason.” Her tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. “You threw the resistance band across the turf and told Alex to shove it.”
I glare at the floor. “That band was defective.”
“Your compliance is defective,” she snaps, facing me. “You’ve been cleared physically for weeks, but you’re still limping like it gets you out of chores.”
I bark a laugh. “Wow. Empathy really is your love language.”
Her arms cross. “You don’t want empathy. You want permission to quit.”
“No,” I say, sharp now. “I want someone to admit this whole comeback fantasy might be a fucking lie.”
Silence.
She watches me for a beat, and when she speaks again, her voice is different. Quieter. Not softer—just . . . lower. Like she’s peeling back a layer she doesn’t show most people.
“You’re not afraid it’s a lie,” she says. “You’re afraid it isn’t.”
I look up.
That lands. Hard.
“You’re scared of getting back on the ice and realizing you’ve done everything right—and it still doesn’t work. You’re scared the dream isn’t broken. You are.”
