Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Jason
Eleven Fucking Months
“I’m not limping. I’m . . . tactically uneven.”
The receptionist smiles the way people do when they see a man in a knee brace and designer joggers—equal parts pity and passive judgment, with a splash of Is that cologne at seven in the morning?
Simply put, it’s sympathy with a condescending garnish.
And, yes, it’s cologne at seven in the fucking morning because my sponsorship requires me to wear it at all times. The last thing I need is for someone to fuck with my endorsements just because I forgot to follow the requirements.
“Do you need help with the elevator?” she asks, overly polite.
“No,” I grunt, shifting my grip on the crutches. “Just directions to the floor where they fix dignity.”
She doesn’t laugh. That’s fine. I’m not here for a standing ovation. I’m here because I lost a fight with a sock, spilled coffee on my last clean T-shirt, and fired my physical therapist for telling me to visualize my recovery arc.
Spoiler: it looks less like a comeback and more like a flatline drawn by a very sleepy toddler with a crayon.
I drag myself—literally—to the waiting area, nod to the juice bar guy like we’re old war buddies, and collapse into one of the leather chairs with the grace of a narcoleptic walrus. My knee throbs in protest, my pride limps beside me, and my patience has already fled the scene around 6:15 a.m.
This place is nicer than the last clinic. Cleaner. Fancier. There’s eucalyptus in the air and real turf on the rehab floor. It smells like money and false hope.
Which is perfect because false hope is the only thing I haven’t tried.
I’ve done everything else: elevation, electro-stim, ice baths, foam rollers that feel like medieval torture, aquatherapy with an ex-Olympian whose vibe screamed ‘motivational poster’ but delivered zero inspiration, supplements that tasted like flavored regret.
I’ve fucking visualized.
I’ve fucking meditated.
I’ve grunted and groaned and gritted my way through every rep.
Even after all that work, I’m still benched, still braced, and still not back.
It’s been eleven months.
Eleven. Fucking. Months.
That’s nearly a year of watching my career unravel in slow motion. The surgery happened two weeks after the injury. It went “well,” according to the notes. Then came the setbacks: Swelling. Fluid buildup. Cartilage issues. Nerve issues. Trust issues—with my own body.
Everyone keeps throwing blind optimism at me like confetti.
“You’ll be back in no time, Tate.”
“Your career’s not over.”
“Comeback of the season. It’s going to be the year when Jason Tate goes all out.”
I’ve heard it all. From my trainer. My agent.
Even my parents—who seriously suggested turmeric, crystals, and “positive vibes” like I’m spraining my aura, not my ACL.
Every day, Mom forwards me some social media posts about “healing frequencies,” as if I’m going to Bluetooth my knee back into shape.
I get it. No one wants to be the person who says, “Hey, maybe you won’t make it back. ”
But here’s the thing: the team doctors stopped saying “soon” two months ago.
Now, they mention things like pain management, long-term mobility, and quality of life with clinical smiles that fail to reach their eyes.
What they’re really saying is: “We don’t believe in you anymore. But we’re too polite to admit it.”
So, they pat my shoulder and talk about next season while looking over my head. They use words like leadership, mentorship, and locker room presence, which is code for thanks for the memories, but we’re probably moving on.
I’m thirty-four, not old—definitely not finished.
But in a league that treats injuries like expiration dates, I might as well be walking around with a red CLEARANCE sticker slapped across my chest. And when you’re the guy with once-impressive stats and a knee that creaks louder than a haunted house floorboard, you stop getting eye contact. You stop being part of the plan.
You stop mattering.
I exhale, head tipping back against the cushion. Above, a screen displays silent fitness promos, likely filmed in this very facility—beautiful people with perfect bodies performing lunges in coordinated sets. Not one crutch in sight.
I used to be that guy.
Now I’m a cautionary tale in limited edition joggers.
And, yeah. I’m pissed.
I’m fucking exhausted. Of pretending like I’m not scared. Of faking swagger that I no longer feel. Of waking up every day wondering if this is the one where someone finally says it out loud: You’re done.
The thing is, I’m not done. I don’t want to be done.
Let them doubt me. Let the whispers grow. Let them draft someone faster, younger, and made of goddamn Teflon.
I’m still here. I didn’t claw my way through eleven months of setbacks and soul-searching just to roll over now.
So, no—I don’t need help with the elevator.
What I need is a plan.
A miracle.
Or a really, really stubborn physical therapist who doesn’t believe in giving up.
My brace squeaks with every third step. The crutches dig into my ribs because I refuse to give them up, and my PT keeps telling me that I’m compensating too much.
“Let go of the crutches,” he said last week. “You’re leaning on them like a security blanket.”
Yeah . . . well, maybe I need a damn blanket. I’d rather hobble than fall. I’d prefer aching over admitting I’m afraid of what might happen if I actually try to walk and fail again.
Jacob McCallister, my agent, has started tossing around the word “retirement” as if it’s a gentle suggestion rather than a verbal gut punch.
Yesterday, during one of his classic pep talks disguised as a business strategy, he remarked, “Jason, we need to be realistic.”
Which, in agent-speak, roughly translates to: Let’s talk brand management, repackaging your legacy, shifting your public image. Let’s make peace with Plan B.
But I don’t want a fucking Plan B. I want the life I had before my knee decided to betray me.
I want to lace up again. I want the crackle of the ice under my skates, the crowd’s roar echoing in my chest, and the clean satisfaction of doing the one thing I’ve ever been great at.
I want to be Jason Tate, pro hockey player—not Jason Tate, has-been.
The waiting room hums around me with that particular energy only orthopedic offices can conjure.
Stale, silent, clinical. I shift in my chair, trying to find something resembling comfort, which is impossible when your brace makes a mechanical thunk every time you move like a warning bell telling you your body’s not yours anymore.
Just as I’m about to give up and brace—no pun intended—for another round of waiting room purgatory, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Jacob.
I stare at the screen for two rings before answering. Long enough to let him know he’s not on my list of people I’m thrilled to hear from today.
“What the fuck do you want? It’s too early for more bad news, and if you tell me another sponsor pulled out, I might fire you.”
Jacob releases a very irritating laugh. “Charming as always. How the hell are you this morning?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Just peachy. Practically radiating fucking sunshine.”
“Ah. So, you’re lying and angry at the world. Classic Jason.”
“I’m fucking delightful.”
“Debatable.”
I exhale, the sound low and uneven as I shift again. The brace on my leg locks with a dull, final click. That noise has started to feel like punctuation—like a period at the end of a sentence that used to be a whole paragraph.
“What do you need?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral but struggling.
Jacob says, “I’ve been looking into options.”
“For what, exactly? Early retirement? Should I start designing my farewell merch?”
“For rehab,” he says, unfazed by my sarcasm. “A new one. Specialized.”
I nearly laugh, but it comes out more like a scoff.
“We did specialized. Remember Phoenix? Because I’m still in fucking Phoenix.
Still stuck here. Still pretending pool noodles are a treatment and not the tools of emotional warfare.
” I pause. “I had night terrors about water aerobics last week. I still flinch when I see foam.”
“This isn’t pool noodles,” Jacob says, and something shifts—subtly—in his tone.
I narrow my eyes. “What is it, then?”
“Someone owes me a favor . . . for you, I can call it in and get you into this treatment.”
That gives me pause. Jacob doesn’t do vague favors; he deals in contracts and control. If this is coming from someone else, it’s because he needs something I won’t like.
“From who?” I ask, suspicion curling low in my gut.
He doesn’t answer right away, which is its own kind of answer.
“I’m not telling you yet,” he finally says. “Because if I do, you’ll say no.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you will sabotage your recovery just to prove a point.”
“I prefer to call that integrity.”
“Call it whatever the fuck you want. But we’re out of time. You keep delaying this, and it won’t matter what plans we make. There won’t be a comeback.”
His words land hard on my chest, pushing all the air out of my lungs, not because they’re cruel, but because they’re true.
I glance down at the brace that swallows my leg.
It used to be muscle, speed, and purpose.
Now, it’s just this foreign thing I carry around.
My crutches lean against the chair like loyal dogs—always there to catch me when I can’t keep going.
And then, for the first time in longer than I’m comfortable admitting, I allowed myself to want something again. Not just the absence of pain. Not just survival.
I want more.
I close my eyes. I don’t pray—I’m not that guy—but I hope. And fuck, does that feel dangerous.
“Fine,” I say quietly. “Set it up.”
There’s a brief pause as if Jacob’s surprised I didn’t put up more of a fight.
“You sure?”
“No.” I open my eyes again, staring at the ceiling like it has answers. “But I’m tired of sitting still.”
“All right,” he says, shifting into action mode. “I’ll get you a charter out of Phoenix. You’ll be back in New York by tomorrow.”
Something in my chest loosens just hearing that.
New York. I haven’t been back in months.
I haven’t seen my parents in person since Jacob shipped me out to LA for the first failed treatment.
I haven’t even crashed on Leif’s couch with a controller in my hand and a half-eaten pizza on the table between us.
Okay, that hasn’t happened since he became a father, but I can only hope that we can hang out again.
Maybe it’s stupid to think being closer to home will make this easier. But it’s something, and right now, something is more than I’ve had in a while.