Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Scottie
New Patient? No Problem . . . Unless It’s Jason Fucking Tate
The world doesn’t merely pause when I see the name—it screeches, skids, and grinds to an unholy halt.
Jason Tate.
I blink. Once. Then again.
As if blinking might magically glitch my tablet screen and replace his name with someone less offensive.
Someone less impossible. But nope, it’s still there, bold and unrelenting in Helvetica, or maybe it’s Georgia .
. . I really don’t know my fonts. Perhaps some other font could’ve cushioned the blow.
I scan the rest of the schedule, hoping—praying—that Em made a typo.
Or someone went rogue. What if . . . what if the software auto-filled his name in as a cruel joke?
None of it feels real. It feels like a prank the universe dreamed up after a long night drinking margaritas and watching early 2000s romcoms.
“Em?” I call out, trying to sound casual and completely failing.
“Yeah?” she responds from the front desk.
“Is this real?” My voice cracks halfway through the question because I already know the answer and hate it here.
“What’s real?” she asks, appearing around the corner with her smoothie and a look of curiosity and zero remorse.
She doesn’t know what she did at all, does she?
“Jason Tate is on my schedule.” I tap my screen.
She squints and reads the name. “Yeah. That’s . . . Jason Tate, from the New York Vipers.”
The way she says it, as if it doesn’t matter, is .
. . not my favorite. I was hoping she’d say no, that’s Jamil Trey or Jagger Trent or .
. . some similar name, but definitely not Jason Tate, as in my brother’s best friend, team captain, and, well .
. . “As in, the reason I started drinking oat milk and rage journaling? That Jason Tate?” The last part didn’t stay in my head and came out a little too loud.
Em shrugs first but then nods slowly. “I think so. I mean . . . maybe there’s more than one Jason Tate, but he’s the only one I’ve ever heard of who makes sportscasters drool.”
I set the tablet down harder than I intended to. The case squeaks in protest, and honestly, same.
“I can’t believe he’s actually coming here,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “I told Jacob to send him to the second-best PT in the country. I actually drew him a map and even gave him a list of other places he could try until he was back in shape.”
“Well, a week ago, you said yes to a favor before asking who it was for.”
“Because Jacob said he couldn’t tell me unless I agreed first. Also, I owed him a favor, and this is how I’m repaying him,” I groan, dragging both hands down my face. “Manipulative little bastard.”
Em just sips her smoothie, unbothered, while my internal organs are in turmoil.
Jason Tate. He’s scheduled for a 10:30 a.m. evaluation.
This means I have exactly fifty minutes to emotionally prepare for the arrival of the man I haven’t seen in years.
The same man I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time avoiding—both in conversation and memory.
The same man I may or may not have once made out with in my parents’ laundry room after prom while wearing Spanx and questionable lip gloss because my date ditched me for Roxy Brady.
It wasn’t a thing. We weren’t a thing. There was nothing.
(Well, at least until Tokyo, but that doesn’t count either.)
Except . . . I’m still embarrassed about the whole event. So, the farther away he can stay from me, the better. He’s happy, I’m happy . . . I can give him another referral. I think there’s this noodle therapy in Phoenix that could help him.
I brace myself on the edge of the desk and try to breathe through the beginning stages of a mild mental breakdown.
“He’s better, right?” I ask. “Like, he doesn’t actually need physical therapy.
This is just some bullshit PR stunt, and I can hand him an ice pack and send him on his way back to the Vipers? ”
Em shakes her head. “No, this guy needs a full evaluation.”
“We can send him somewhere else.”
She raises one brow. “Do you want to be responsible for botching Jason Tate’s comeback?”
God, she’s right. And I hate that she’s right.
“We’ll give him to another therapist. I’ll do the evaluation, but I’m not working with him.”
Of all the injured athletes Jacob could’ve sent my way, he chose him .
Of all the broken bodies in New York, I get that one, the one who .
. . I mean, it wasn’t a big deal. Yes, a kiss, but after that, I felt like the most inadequate person in the world.
It’s not like he promised to call me or we said anything important, but still .
. . he’s the professional equivalent of a pulled hamstring in my emotional development.
And now I have to fix him.
I groan and drop into my chair as if it personally offended me. I glare at the ceiling, silently begging for divine inspiration—or a lightning bolt. I’d settle for either. The third option of the ground swallowing me whole? Not happening. Unfortunately.
“Text Jacob and tell him he’s fired. I’ll get myself a new agent,” I mutter.
“I’ll add it to the list,” Em says with a chirpy efficiency that makes me want to throw my shoe at her. She’s already tapping on her tablet, probably logging it between ordering more resistance bands and saving the Boss from herself.
Jason fucking Tate.
Of all the ways I thought this day could go, getting blindsided by the universe’s cruel sense of humor wasn’t on my bingo card. I’d rather take a flying resistance band to the face again. And I’ve had one snap on me mid-stretch—I still have trust issues with latex.
If he’d just told me . . . if Jacob had mentioned this minor detail . . . I could’ve delivered a hard, fast, hell-the-fuck no. Gift-wrapped with a bow and a “best of luck with the rebranding.”
But no. Of course not. Because why make things simple when we can make them humiliating?
I haven’t seen Jason since the Olympic closing ceremony.
There was champagne. Confetti. Tongues in places they don’t normally belong, and hands that were so soft.
The stupid cardboard beds didn’t even slow us down.
But as quickly as the moment came, it vanished (along with any sign of Jason) the morning after. . .
I felt like such an idiot, wanting to wake up in his arms as if it meant anything to him.
And then I disappeared like Houdini with abandonment issues: barely saving face from what would’ve been a revolving circus of paparazzi until he denounced me publicly like a stupid school-age crush.
At least he saved me time and dignity by showing me how he felt upfront.
“You could say no,” Em says softly as if she’s handling a wild animal or a woman on the verge.
But we both know I won’t.
First, I owe Jacob that much. And second . . . if I start turning away every athlete who pisses me off, I’d be left with three clients and a volleyball team from Salem that brings me baked goods and zero emotional trauma.
I press my palms against the desk. The cool wood feels good against my sweaty hands. I take a deep breath in and out. I’ve got this.
“He’s not going to show,” I say, leaning back like I’m unbothered. I deserve an Oscar.
“You don’t know that,” Em replies without looking up.
“I do. Jason Tate doesn’t beg. He broods until he implodes, and someone has to call a therapist or a PR firm.”
“So you’re not worried?”
“Not at all.” My voice is breezy. My stomach, however, is doing a backflip and landing crooked. Traitor.
I don’t trust my gut today. It’s hormonal. Or caffeinated. Either way, logic has the wheel.
Fifteen minutes later, my father strolls into the office with his green smoothie and that look that says, I have opinions and nowhere else to put them.
“You’re pacing.”
“I’m not. I’m strategically shifting between desk zones.”
“You’re muttering, too.”
“It’s called stress dispersal. It’s practically clinical. Look it up.”
He sips from his smoothie like it’s my fault he’s retired.
I’m one passive-aggressive comment away from buying him a fancy blender and mailing him back with express shipping to wherever my father is.
Full retirement looks about as good on him as bangs did on me last year when I was way too desperate to find a new look.
Can his husband not keep him distracted with a renovation or a fake emergency? Honestly, I’m starting to think he sends my dad over here on purpose. And I might start doing the same.
“You’ve got that look again,” Papa says.
I pause. “What look?”
“The ‘someone just challenged me to a duel, and I’m only bringing sarcasm and a questionable life plan’ look.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Jacob sent me a patient. A complicated one.”
“How complicated?”
“Jason Tate.”
Papa hums. “I had no idea that name came with a red flag emoji—as you kids call it these days. I saw him last night at Leif’s place. He’s still using crutches. Wearing a brace, too.”
“He’s still—?” I blink. “Why is he still wearing a brace? It’s been long enough that he should at least—” I motion vaguely at the door like answers might float in.
“Want me to stay?” Papa offers all parental concerns and meddling energy.
“No.”
“Want me to say something soothing and cliché?”
“Absolutely not.”
He kisses the top of my head and murmurs, “Don’t let him charm his way out of the hard stuff.”
I scoff. “Please. If he even thinks about winking, I’ll double his rehab routine. I’ll make his knees beg for mercy.”
“That’s not exactly the point of your practice,” he says over his shoulder as he heads out, smug as hell.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll be nice. But I’m not making it easy.” I pause, letting the corner of my mouth lift. “He’ll skate again—and if he flirts, he’ll earn every damn stride.”