Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Jason
Overcompensating Isn’t a Game Plan
There’s a moment—somewhere between the second “Please, take a seat” and the third time I scan the room for an exit sign—where I seriously consider pretending to faint.
Not because I’m afraid of the therapist.
I’m afraid of me. Of being in this room with my thoughts, and with whatever-the-hell this is supposed to be.
The office is warm in that suffocating, cozy-on-purpose kind of way: all beige tones, soft corners, and mid-century knockoff furniture.
A scent diffuser in the corner keeps puffing out lavender.
I’m convinced this building has a full-blown lavender-eucalyptus fetish.
As if a few essential oils will fix everyone’s deeply entrenched issues with control, performance, and—because why the fuck not—life itself.
I’m parked on a couch that’s trying way too hard to be inviting. I wore joggers from a sponsor that’s about to drop my ass if I don’t start playing and a hoodie I haven’t washed in three days because it still smells like something I can’t quite name. Like who I used to be.
Across from me sits Dr. Eliza Park. Probably mid-forties, with neatly styled blonde curls, black-rimmed glasses, and a spine that doesn’t bend for anyone’s theatrics.
She doesn’t react to the whole athlete thing and doesn’t even blink when I shift in my brace with a little extra emphasis.
Just taps something into her sleek little tablet like she’s already filed me under ‘predictable disappointment: Jason Tate, case closed.’
“I appreciate you trying again,” she says, calm as ever.
“I didn’t,” I answer because, apparently, my mouth wants to set something on fire today.
Her lips tilt. Not a smile. Not even close. But it’s something wry. Something that says, Cute try, rookie. “Didn’t appreciate giving it another shot, or didn’t come willingly?”
“Both,” I admit. “Not sure why this is supposed to work when I only need physical therapy.”
“Good.” She nods once. “Honesty helps.”
Oh. Great.
A therapist who doesn’t play.
Scottie would be proud. This probably explains the referral—well, it’s a “strong suggestion,” according to Reese.
I should ask for someone else—someone gentler.
Maybe someone who believes I’m fine as long as I can touch my toes and climb stairs without flinching instead of asking me how I feel about my current situation.
Emotional baggage shouldn’t be part of my recovery.
And even if I’m against it, I won’t say shit. They’ll drop me if I don’t follow through. If I get dropped, that’s it. No more chances. No more come-back arc. In other words, I’m fucked for life.
It’ll be me, my broken career, and a brace I might as well get fitted in every color.
“Jason,” she says, her voice even gentler. “Do you know why you’re here?”
I shrug. “Because it’s part of my ‘recovery plan.’” I draw air quotes, and she doesn’t even twitch. Doesn’t react. Just wait, like she’s got all day, and I’m just the warm-up act.
But what is she really waiting for? The part I’m not saying .
. . what is that? Someone should’ve given me the material to study if this was a test. I’m decent enough during tests.
What I can’t do is wait and be in a silent room when I’m unaware of what’s happening.
So naturally, my mouth gets there first.
“It’s most likely because Scottie thinks I’m emotionally constipated?”
“Scottie?”
Oh. Right. This is a professional setting.
Maybe I shouldn’t refer to the woman who might be my only hope by her childhood nickname.
Maybe here, she’s Ella. Or Dr. Crawford.
Is she even a doctor? I don’t know. Every time I’m on her website, I don’t look that far into her bio.
Mostly stare at her picture on the site like a cyberstalker.
So maybe emotionally constipated isn’t the complete diagnosis, but it’s probably not far off. Something about being around her again is making things . . . difficult to discern. Is that even what’s happening to me?
I dodge the follow-up. “It’s part of my recovery,” I repeat, flat and a little too rehearsed. It’s almost like the same shit I have to say when I go to games because it’s in my contract, and a reporter gets ahold of me. They’re waiting for the moment when I say, ‘I’m retiring.’
“Closer,” Dr. Park says, like we’re playing some twisted version of emotional hot and cold.
I blow out a slow breath through my nose, something between resignation and ‘fuck it, let’s just say it.’
“Physically, I’ve been cleared. All the tests say I’m good to go.” My hand gestures vaguely toward my brace and my crutches. “But I’m still limping around like it’s forty-eight hours post-op, and someone dared me to fake progress.”
There. That’s it. My grand confession. Raw honesty disguised in sarcasm because that’s my emotional brand.
I wait for her reaction, half-expecting a metaphor or, worse—breathing exercises. Maybe a line about inner strength or finding my center. Or perhaps she’ll suggest early retirement with a side of spiritual journaling. That would be fun.
But Dr. Park nods once, smooth as a poker player.
“That’s a start,” she says, her voice even.
No pity. No bullshit. “But it’s more than the limp.
You’re still using the crutches and still wearing the brace.
You passed every strength and balance test. Functional movement?
Cleared. Single-leg hops? Cleared. But your body’s still pulling back.
You’re protecting something that’s not physically at risk anymore. ”
“So . . . I’m a head case.”
“No,” she says with a look that tells me I’m not even in the top ten of dumbass athletes she’s had to walk through this. “You were injured. That’s different.”
I point to my leg. “Still injured.”
“Technically?” She tilts her head. “No.”
She leans forward slightly, tapping her pen against the tablet like she’s deciding how deep to go without losing me.
“You were injured when it happened. You had surgery. Rehab. You hit all your physical milestones. The thing is . . . your brain didn’t get the memo.
Your body’s moving like you’re waiting for pain.
Anticipating it. Guarding against something that’s no longer there. ”
I shift on the couch, which somehow feels more like a stage now. “So now it’s all in my head?”
“Not all,” she says, tone calm but pointed. “But enough to interrupt recovery.”
Great. So now I’ve officially joined the ranks of athletes who ghost their potential. I rub a hand over my jaw, pretending like I’m processing but I’m really just stalling.
“So what’s the treatment plan? Magic mantras? Cry it out? Do I start referring to my ACL in the past tense like a dead ex?”
“Maybe,” she replies, deadpan. “Or maybe we start with letting your body re-learn how to trust itself again. We stop reinforcing the fear loop. You’re overcompensating—physically, emotionally, probably even sexually, if we’re being honest.”
I choke on a laugh. “I’m not overcompensating sexually.”
Her brow arches.
“I’m not.”
She doesn’t push, but the silence feels accusatory in a way that makes my dick twitch with spite. I shift again, less gracefully this time.
“I’m just saying, the brace isn’t part of some long-term kink.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” she says, one corner of her mouth lifting slightly.
“I don’t wear it in bed if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Jason,” she says, her voice velvet-wrapped steel, “you’re not here to convince me you’re still good in bed. You’re here because you don’t believe you’re good on the ice. Though, how’s your life outside the rink?”
There’s no life inside or outside the rink, but I don’t answer any of that. Mostly because I don’t want to bring up something that’s obviously obsolete to my recovery. My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, and for once, I don’t let it run.
She taps on her tablet again, her fingers graceful and efficient. “This isn’t about pretending you’re okay. It’s about retraining your brain to know you’re okay, to trust that you won’t get injured again.”
I want to argue that this isn’t what I’m thinking, but honestly, I’ve never stopped to think shit through. So what’s the point of taking the conversation to that place? “So, like rehab, but for my brain.”
“Exactly.”
I laugh, but it’s more air than actual humor. “Terrific. Can’t wait for brain squats and emotional lunges.”
“You’d be surprised,” she replies without blinking. “Emotional lunges have great glute engagement.”
“Is that supposed to make me want to do them? Because if we’re talking glutes, I’d rather be putting mine to work doing something that doesn’t involve unpacking my childhood and crying into tissues from a fancy box.”
Dr. Park doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just arches a single brow that says, Go ahead, keep deflecting, I’ve got time.
I groan, slouching further into the couch. “So how many of these sessions until I’m fully functional?”
She narrows her eyes. “Not sure if I should be thrilled you lasted more than five minutes this time without making a break for it . . . or mildly offended that you think I have a recovery punch card.”
“I’m just saying, if there’s a rewards program, I’d like to know what I’m earning. Emotional stability? A coffee mug that says ‘Talk Feelings to Me’?”
She doesn’t laugh. Not really. But her mouth tilts slightly as if she’s fighting the urge. “Is that how you start all your therapy sessions? Asking for an end date?”
“I’ve never been in talk therapy in my life,” I admit, and the truth of it hangs in the air, weirdly heavier than I expected. “This is my first.”
“Noted. But it’s a broad question. Sounds like it’s not just about therapy, but all the PT you’ve been doing since you were cleared to start.”
I nod once, resisting the urge to cross my arms like a moody teenager. “Yeah. I work better with structure. Mostly timelines. If I can see the target, I know how hard to push.”
That earns a softer smile—understanding on the surface, but there’s something else behind it. Something I’m not in on. She taps something on her tablet, then looks back at me.
“Well, that’s your first homework assignment.”
“Homework?”
“Think about your goals. But not in terms of time. Think about them in terms of achievements.”
I blink. “You want me to, what, manifest my healed self into existence?”
“I want you to think about what success looks like—without measuring it in days or deadlines.”
That hits wrong. Twists something behind my ribs in a way I don’t like.
Because if I’m not working toward a date on the calendar, if there’s no countdown to better, then I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. No finish line? No clarity? No endgame?
Just vibes and vulnerability?
I shift again, my brace clicking faintly as if trying to echo my discomfort. “What if I don’t know what that looks like?”
Dr. Park tilts her head. “Then we start there.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I walked in here thinking I’d get a prescription for mental toughness and some affirmation flashcards. Instead, I’m leaving with a reminder that I have no idea what the hell I want.
Except maybe to feel like myself again.
Whoever the fuck that even is.