Page 42 of Playing for the Hat Trick
And those eyes?
Jesus. Those eyes didn’t just look at me. They searched. Like I was hiding the meaning of life somewhere in my sports bra.
Now my palm’s tingling like it got struck by a lust lightning bolt, and not the fun kind. No, this is the kind of nerve-ending overload that makes me want to ice my hand, cleanse the clinic—in a very spiritual way—and take a vow of celibacy all in one breath.
I’m sweating. Not the productive post-lunge glow. This is awkward stress sweat—the kind that makes your bra band try to assassinate you with a thousand paper cuts.
“This is bad,” I groan, spinning in a slow, useless circle between the cleaning supplies like I’m about to waltz with a bottle of Lysol. “This is very bad.”
Because if I’m sweating now? From one session? Imagine me after a week of rehabbing him. Imagine me trying not to notice how his muscles flex when he limps, or the way he clenches his jaw when he’s in pain, or how his voice dips an octave when he says my name like it’s a goddamn secret.
This isn’t crush-level trouble. This is ‘please God, don’t let me end up naked on the treatment table with his hard length in my mouth’ trouble.
And the worst part?
I kind of want to end up naked on the treatment table doing very, very naughty things with Jason Tate, which is a big no-no. Though, isn’t that like a double negative that creates a yes . . . stop trying to find loopholes, Ella. This is a no-go. Never in this lifetime is this kind of situation going to happen.
Okay, let’s rationalize this. We’ll break it down and analyze the data as we would do for any session.First of all, Jason has made progress. Even when he’s in a heightened emotional state—fear, vulnerability, physical stimulation.
You’re in a heightened state because you haven’t had sex since . . . well, that data isn’t important at all. This is about the patient and not me.
But is it really not about my state of mind? I mean, I stopped dating when my body gave out, when my career shattered. That’s a very long time. Between then and now, I went back to get a master’s degree and a PhD and started several businesses, including this clinic.
Doing all that seemed easier because dating during and after that felt like a performance review you already knew you’d failed.
Every “What do you do?” was a landmine—every “What happened?” a trigger.
Every date ended with me pretending I wasn’t still mourning a version of myself I didn’t know how to let go of.
I drop onto a box of resistance bands like it’s a goddamn fainting couch.
My ass makes the plastic creak like I’m auditioning for a sitcom about burned-out trainers and the patients who undo them. I’m sweating. Not in a sexy, dewy, rom-com heroine way—more in a “what if I die right now and they find me covered in resistance bands and shame,” kind of way.
My pulse? Yeah, that bitch is doing burpees. My hands? Useless. They’re clammy and twitching like they’ve got a mind of their own, replaying every single moment from the past hour like a greatest hits reel of “Welcome to Your Professional Downfall.”
This isn’t like me. This is not who I am.
I am Scottie Marie Fucking Crawford.
Olympic medalist. Rehab director. Ex-captain of the U.S. National Team. I’ve sprinted on a torn calf with fifty-two thousand people watching me, pretending I wasn’t about to collapse on live television. I’ve taken elbows to the sternum from women built like brick shithouses and still made my penalty shot. I’ve been tackled midair by a teammate trying to celebrate too early and didn’t even flinch. Okay, fine—I flinched. But I won.
I do not lose my grip on reality because one stupidly hot hockey player looked at me like I was the reason he still believes in miracles.
Fuck me, I sound unhinged even in my head. I rub my face like I can scrub the moment off my skin. That moment. The moment.
That precise blink in time—his knee lifted. No compensation. No delay. No hint of strain.
I should’ve whooped. Should’ve punched the air like an over caffeinated coach on a caffeine drip.
I froze.
His gaze didn’t track his leg. It locked onto me.
There it was. That flash. Stupid. Dangerous. Nowhere in the treatment manual. A look that didn’t say ‘good job, doc.’ It whispered something far worse.
You’re not the finish line. You’re the reason I want to keep running.
Nope. Absolutely not.
