Page 36 of Playing for the Hat Trick
And this?
This isn’t like when I started—when I was a kid with a half-dead pair of skates, chasing a dream big enough to drown me. That was hunger. Fire. Delusion, maybe. But it kept me going.
Now? Now, I have to work three times as hard just to believe I still belong in the room.
And when the person assigned to rebuild you walks in looking like all your teenage regrets, sexual frustrations, and unresolved emotional damage wrapped in leggings—yeah.
Let’s call this a real fucking strong start.
Scottie’s at the center of the room, tablet in one hand, arms crossed, jaw set like she’s two seconds away from delivering a verdict I won’t survive.
She looked up when I limped in. Didn’t smile. Didn’t greet me. Just gave me a once-over as if she was calculating how many times I’ve sabotaged myself this month and whether duct tape’s covered under clinic policy.
It’s early. Too fucking early for this level of psychological warfare.
My muscles aren’t awake yet. My knee’s already whispering ‘Why are we doing this again?’ And I can feel the start of a spiral, slow and familiar, nudging at the edges of my ribs.
But I made a promise to myself, plus Jacob and Leif will hand me my ass if I don’t at least try this time.
Which means I won’t be running, firing anyone, or quitting.
I step closer.
“Where do you want me?” I ask.
Scottie taps something into her tablet, still not looking up. “Mat. Shoes off. Brace off. We’re starting re-patterning today.”
It shouldn’t hit like a punch, but it does.
No easing in. No preamble. Just dive in and hope I don’t drown.
A reset.
I nod, mouth dry, as I stare at my brace. “You sure? Shouldn't we do this process slowly and . . .” Okay, I don’t have a good excuse not to take off the brace, but, fuck, why does she have to take it away right now? I stop with the crutches. Can we give me a month until I’m used to that so I can give up the other object that makes me feel safe enough to walk?
She glances up. Eyes clear, voice even. “You’re cleared. The brace isn’t helping anymore. You don’t need it. You need to trust your body again.”
Trust. Cute.
I drop to the mat and start peeling off the brace, which takes a long time. It sticks. Velcro catches against itself like it doesn’t want to let go. My fingers aren’t shaking from pain—they’re shaking from the part of me that still thinks maybe I’m not built for this anymore.
Every inch of exposed skin feels like I’m peeling off armor.
Scottie watches. Not with pity. Not with judgment. Just that same stillness she wears like a second skin.
“Good,” she says when the brace is finally off. “On your back.”
I lie down. The mat is cool. Too cool. Not uncomfortable, just enough to make me hyper-aware of the fact that I’m lying down in front of her with nothing left to hide behind.
My breath’s uneven.
There’s a pull behind my knee like it knows what’s coming and would like to politely decline, thanks.
She kneels beside me, slow and unfazed, like this is just another morning. Her hands slide beneath my leg—one under my hamstring, the other cradling my ankle—and I swear to God, my pulse goes rogue.
It’s not sexual. Not exactly.
It’s worse.
