Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Scottie
Don’t Let Him Make It About You
There are a lot of rules in physical therapy: protocols, thresholds, baselines, and guidelines. No one teaches you in school how to handle the athletes who treat them all like loose suggestions printed on the back of a cocktail napkin.
Jason Tate is exactly that brand of impossible and somehow infuriating client you want to fire but can’t until he gives you a real motive.
Every day, when he walks into the center, he does it like it’s game day.
Swagger at full volume. Ego in tow. His knee brace squeaks with every step like it’s auditioning for a horror film, but God forbid he admits it needs oil.
Or that maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t need to wear it like an emotional support blanket.
For reasons known only to him—or maybe the gods of orthopedic chaos—he’s made a hobby out of crashing my group sessions. Two in one week. Signed up. Logged in. “Observing.” As if sitting in the back row like some broody, Byronic statue is fooling anyone.
I recognize posturing when I see it.
Jason Tate isn’t here to heal. He’s here to spar.
It’s fine. I’ve seen worse. Treated worse. Been sworn at in three languages and bitten by a surprisingly hostile gymnast.
But Jason? He’s something else. A pebble in a shoe—too small to sideline you, too irritating to ignore. Just enough friction to drive you insane, and he knows it. He lives in it. He’s having a hard day, but still, he’s now on my shit list.
So when I see his name on the roster for tomorrow’s 9 a.m. class—again—I don’t let it affect me.
Not outwardly.
I circle it in red, flag it for Reese, and rehearse my lines: ‘It’s routine.
’ ‘He’s a dropout case waiting to happen.
’ ‘I don’t have the emotional energy to guide another brooding athlete through the minefield of unmet expectations and performance anxiety disguised as arrogance.
’ ‘We shouldn’t be wasting our qualified personnel on him. ’
He’s not my client. And no matter how many calls Jacob places every day, he’s not going to be my client.
And this? This is not personal.
I’ll casually bring it up with Reese. Nothing dramatic. Just a, “Hey, quick question—what’s Jason Tate doing in my sessions, and do we allow loitering with intent to brood?”
Today, I arrive before the staff lights even hum to life, already halfway through my first cup of black coffee and knee-deep in planning for the weekend’s injury track reshuffle.
I’ve got a low-impact progression group booked in Room B, and Reese asked for backup with the lateral resistance circuit, but I’d rather take point.
It’s clean work. Objective. Predictable.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Until I walk into the group room and spot him already there.
Jason Tate. Center of my migraine spiral.
He’s early. Sitting in the back row like a glitched-out Greek statue with a hood pulled up and arms crossed, radiating I-don’t-belong-here-but-I-will-be-because-I-can.
His brace is locked in place like it’s keeping him from unraveling. Or maybe it’s his keystone. Who knows. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. Just watches me walk in as if I’m his opponent, and he’s daring me to flinch first.
I don’t.
At least, I pretend not to.
He’s not the first injured athlete trying to make rehab feel like a contact sport. And I’m not about to become the girl who flutters at the sight of a smoldering hockey player with daddy issues and a complex about being vulnerable.
I cue up the playlist. Scan the attendance sheet. Launch into instructions like I didn’t just swallow a sigh shaped exactly like his name.
My voice is crisp, unapologetic. I keep correcting everyone because that’s why they’re here. Kendra’s glutes need stabilizing. Rory’s ankle rotation is compensating for shoulder tension again. Cameron’s squat form is rounding in the lower back. I call it out before it becomes a pattern.
Jason? He sits through it all, silent. He’s watching me like I’m part of some internal game film he’s analyzing. Like I’m the variable he hasn’t figured out how to control.
The session ends. The room begins to clear. I’m resetting bands and mentally checking off my to-do list when I hear the familiar drag-thump rhythm behind me.
Jason.
“Morning, Tate,” I say, keeping my tone light. “What’s the plan today? Audit the class in silence and judge us all for having feelings?”
He doesn’t laugh. Of course, he doesn’t. But he doesn’t leave either.
“I’m observing,” he says, his voice low and dry. “You know. For fun.”
I glance over my shoulder, arching a brow. “Do you do all your fun things with that expression? Because, just so you know, you’re giving serious ‘assigned court-mandated labor’ energy.”
There’s a flicker—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile. More like a reluctant acknowledgment that humor still exists in the world and I may have accidentally poked it out of him.
“I like to be prepared,” he replies.
“For what? Gladiator trials? Emotional warfare?” I turn fully now, arms crossed, mirroring him because if he thinks I’m backing down, he’s clearly never met a stubborn physical therapist with a clipboard and unresolved control issues.
“For when I’m in your rotation.”
“You’re not.”
“Yet.”
God help me with this stubborn man.
“Well,” I draw the word out as I sling a band over my shoulder and resist the urge to fling it at him instead, “feel free to schedule a real session when that miracle occurs. Right after you apologize to your brace for making it carry all your emotional baggage.”
This time, the twitch becomes a slight curve of amusement. It’s not full-on joy, but it’s definitely something.
“You always this mouthy with patients?”
“Only the ones who confuse arrogance for charm.”
“You’re kind of mean.”
“You’re kind of exhausting.”
He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Fair.”
There’s a pause too long to be a casual moment where his gaze doesn’t move. As if he’s cataloging me for future reference. I should walk away. I have things to do. Better things. Smarter things. I should move on.
But I don’t.
“I’m sure you think you’re more difficult than you actually are,” I say finally, letting the words hang between us.
He shifts his weight, leans on the crutch like he’s preparing to tell me something true. “I’m not just watching for fun.”
“Good,” I reply, my tone clipped as I finally return to tidying the band wall. “Because this isn’t your personal stream.”
That earns a breath of laughter from him. Quick and quiet. But it’s there.
Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything else.
Then, finally: “Can I sign up for tomorrow? A real session. No back-row lurking.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Depends on your progress. That brace is still part of your outfit.”
He doesn’t argue. Just holds my gaze for one beat longer than necessary, then turns and leaves like he’s letting me win the round. Like we’re keeping score.
Back in my office, I pull his file from the edge of my desk. It’s not color-coded yet. That’s reserved for confirmed cases; technically, he’s not one of mine.
Not yet.
Em pokes her head in and drops two new folders onto my desk, along with a protein bar I didn’t ask for but will absolutely eat out of spite. She doesn’t need to say anything, but she does anyway.
“You keeping him?” Her eyes flick toward the file I haven’t let go of.
“No.” It comes out too fast, too practiced. “I’m just monitoring.”
She doesn’t press. Just raises a knowing brow and disappears with a smirk I refuse to acknowledge.
I flip back to Jason’s evaluation notes.
Reese input the numbers yesterday. We reassess every two weeks, tracking performance metrics to map recovery trajectories.
His numbers are a mess—some solid, some slipping, and overcompensations everywhere.
This is the kind of data that doesn’t just speak—it screams.
Fear. Instability. Mistrust in the joint. Performance anxiety that bleeds into muscle memory.
It’s all in the numbers.
What’s missing?
The fix.
He needs more than standard protocol. He needs individualized planning—something nuanced. A hybrid approach focused on re-patterning and symmetry, paired with proprioceptive feedback and a recalibrated push test in week two—if he earns it.
I close the folder, jot a note on the pending chart, and make a mental note to review his compliance log by Friday.
He doesn’t get to coast through this.
Not with a jawline like that and a martyr complex big enough to require its own insurance policy. He’s not special. He’s not some gifted exception to the process.
He’s just another busted-up player trying to outrun the reality of recovery demands. I shouldn’t care about him or his recovery this much—not at all. So why am I starting to wonder if he should, in fact, be on my roster?