Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Jason
Get In, Get Fixed, Get Out (A Fake Game Plan Jason Tells Himself)
They tell you to expect many things when you hit rock bottom.
Sleepless nights. Bitter pills. That slow, creeping dread that maybe you’ve already played your last game—and didn’t even know it.
What they don’t tell you?
That your rock bottom might come with eucalyptus air diffusers, a juice bar featuring a gluten-free muffin display, and kombucha on tap as if it’s trying to gentrify your despair.
The clinic is . . . sleeker than expected—too sleek for my taste.
It screams, “Pain, but make it luxury.” Like a wellness publicist has rebranded suffering into something aspirational.
Glass walls, mood lighting, and designer chairs that look more like art installations than anything you’d actually sit on after tearing an ACL.
My crutches thud across the polished floor as I limp through the lobby, dragging what’s left of my pride behind me like a forgotten gym bag.
The receptionist gives me a polite double-take.
I shoot her my least friendly nod in return.
I’m not here to be charming. That guy’s benched.
I’m here because I’ve exhausted everything else—and this was the last Hail Mary Jacob could throw.
If they can’t fix me here . . . even Jacob didn’t have a follow-up for that.
Honestly, this place should slap a tagline on their brochures: “Tried everything else? Welcome to your final fuck-it.”
I lower myself into one of the aggressively modern chairs lining the waiting area.
It’s all sharp lines and angles pretending to be ergonomic, like sitting on a piece of modern art.
There’s a cushion, but it might as well be concrete.
My brace clicks as I shift, my leg locked and aching.
That same dull, gnawing pressure lives there constantly now, mocking me.
Nothing shows up on the scans, so according to every doc I’ve seen, I’m “cleared.”
“You’re good to go,” they said. “The rest is PT.”
I’m not good. I’m stuck.
Stuck in a body that refuses to cooperate. Stuck in a purgatory where the world thinks you’re fine, yet you know you’re not. Maybe I didn’t ask nicely to get in here. Perhaps I called in a favor and twisted an arm or two. But I didn’t come this far to play polite.
So here I am.
Braced. Brooding. Waiting for some PR-verified Ivy League therapist to tell me what I already know—that my career is circling the drain, and the only thing left is to make peace with it.
The door behind the front desk opens.
I glance up, expecting someone new: clipboard, scrubs, a too-practiced smile.
Instead—it’s her.
Well. That explains the Laferty plastered across the name of the clinic.
I figured it was a branding fluke—something that just sounded upscale enough to lure in desperate athletes with bloated contracts and busted knees.
Because why the hell would a Crawford use Laferty?
Everyone knows who the Crawfords are. The name carries weight. Recognition. Generational grit.
Only hardcore hockey fans like me know Mathieu Scott Laferty.
My chest locks up. Air’s right there, but I can’t get it in. She walks into the waiting room as if she owns it—which, apparently, she does—and everything else drops away.
Scottie.
Ella “Do-Not-Call-Me-Adorable” Crawford.
Let the record show she’s still fucking adorable.
Her dark hair is swept up in a way that screams I didn’t try that hard, yet still looks editorial as hell. Clipboard in one hand, the other relaxed at her side like she might casually sign my death warrant at any moment.
And she looks right past me.
Not like she didn’t see me—more like she took one look and decided I wasn’t worth the effort. Just another mistake she scrubbed from her history. Knowing her, I probably rank somewhere between a bad haircut and a pulled hamstring.
Then her eyes lock onto mine.
One second. That’s all she gives me.
Her smile hits quickly—the fake one, not the friends-and-family one. The kind of smile that tells you absolutely nothing while making it painfully clear you’re so very fucked.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Jason Tate,” she says, her voice like smooth espresso—velvety, dark, and with a bite that lingers. “Brace, crutches, and all. Still milking that injury? Or is this your new strategy to dodge the season and rack up sympathy points?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Still using sarcasm to keep people from getting too close, huh?”
She hums, entirely unfazed. “Time for your eval. If this place can’t fix you . . .” She gestures toward the hallway like she’s about to lead me to my execution. “Well, you can always try goat yoga next. I hear it’s life-changing.”
I haul myself upright, leaning into the crutches harder than necessary—part performance, part very real pain. Every step down the hallway serves as a slow, echoing reminder that I used to move like lightning. Now, I move like a penguin.
The room she leads me into smells like sweat disguised in lavender oil and gardenia-scented lies.
It’s pristine and blindingly white, every inch gleaming as if it’s been scrubbed with the tears of overachievers.
A wall of mirrors spans one side. On the other side is a ballet barre, exercise bands, and a very judgmental-looking Pilates reformer.
“Sit,” she says, not even glancing over her shoulder.
I drop onto the nearest bench with all the grace of a wounded wildebeest. There’s a cushion, but it’s as useless as my medical clearance—the knee brace locks into place with a mechanical click as if it’s mocking me.
She’s already flipping through a file—my file, probably already memorized, but she’s going through the motions as if I’m just another patient, which is bullshit. She knows it. I know it.
“Phoenix,” she says, her tone flat. “Water therapy, soft-tissue work, nerve response testing. Didn’t take.”
“Nope.”
“Los Angeles. Core alignment, sensory recalibration.”
“Didn’t stick.”
“Two PTs in Colorado and one in Oregon. A sports psychologist told you to ‘lean into trust.’”
I bark out a laugh. “I told him to lean into a wall.”
That earns me the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Not even close. But something warmer than the glacier she walked in with. Almost like she remembers that night in Tokyo, too. The hookup that haunts me more than the games I’ve lost.
“You’ve been cleared by your team doc, three outside physicians, two surgeons, and a performance coach,” she continues, flipping the file shut.
“I’ve also failed three strength tests and can’t do a single-leg hop without my knee trying to break up with me.”
She finally looks at me.
No pity. No flinching. Just those eyes—cool, calculated, familiar—and a calm that pierces through me.
“Why are you really here, Tate?”
I glance around the room. “Honestly? The lighting in here is phenomenal. My selfies are gonna slap.”
“Try again.”
I meet her eyes and forget how to breathe for a second. “This might be my last shot. And I have no idea why no one referred me to you before I went on my nationwide Tour de Sadness and Expensive Copays.”
Her lips twitch again, just enough to indicate she’s not made of stone. Maybe steel. But not stone.
“Well, Jacob was right. If we can’t get you to ditch the brace and crutches . . .” She tilts her head. “No one can.”
She pulls a tablet from the wall, swipes through a few screens, and grabs a notepad like she’s about to dissect me for sport. “Let’s start with range of motion.”
“I’m thrilled,” I mutter, dragging myself upright with an Oscar-worthy groan.
“Lie down on the table,” she instructs all business.
“Buy me dinner first.”
She levels me with a look that could freeze boiling water. “Down, Tate.”
I settle onto the table, grumbling under my breath. “Bossy.”
She adjusts the table height, and her fingers skim the side of my leg, firm and clinical. My breath hitches anyway. Because this? This isn’t just about muscles or ligaments or scar tissue. This is Scottie Crawford touching me again—after years of radio silence and one spectacularly hot night.
“Try to relax,” she says, pressing my thigh as she rotates my knee.
“Easy for you to say. Your kneecap isn’t threatening to go rogue.”
She lifts a brow. “On a scale of one to ten, how exhausting are you planning to be today?”
“Somewhere between a fourth-line grinder with a chip on his shoulder and a goalie after a bad call.”
She bites her lip to keep from laughing. That mouth. Fuck, I remember that mouth.
“Flex,” she says, like she didn’t just nearly smile.
I grit my teeth and flex.
Pain flares bright and fast down my quad. “Jesus—fuck—okay, that’s new.”
“No, that’s scar tissue. Hold it.”
“I’d like to lodge a formal complaint.”
“Go ahead. I have a whole drawer of them. Right next to the tissues and shattered dreams.”
I let out a strained laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
She moves to my ankle, checking mobility like I’m not dying inside. “A little.”
“How much is a little?”
“Let’s just say I’m not not imagining charging you triple.”
When she glances up again, our eyes lock, just for a second. But it’s enough. Enough to remind me she’s not just anyone.
This is Scottie.
And I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’ve walked into.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
Her hands are small. Precise. Calloused from years of playing and being one of the boys . . . sometimes even better than her brothers.
I’m pretending I’m not staring at her mouth.
“Still having trouble with lateral pivoting?” she asks, brushing my knee above the brace.
My breath hitches. “Yeah.”
“Pain or instinct?”
I give it a second, and I blurt, “Honestly, it’s a lot of fucking fear.”
That earns me a pause. A real one. Her eyes meet mine for a full second too long.
She bobs her head and continues the eval.
After a series of strength tests and mobility checks, in which I fail two out of five and wince through the rest, she steps back and sets the tablet down.
“Well,” she says. “It’s not great.”
“Give it to me straight, Ella Crawford. Don’t sugarcoat it.”
“Fine, you’re a fucking mess.”
I grin. “Been called worse.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not here to charm your way out of anything, Tate.”
“Good. That was raw survival instinct.”
She leans against the counter, arms folded. “You’re overcompensating in four different ways. Your body doesn’t trust your leg. And your leg doesn’t trust you.”
“Sounds mutual.”
“Your hamstrings are doing the job of your glutes. Your glutes are on vacation. And your core is—well, it’s showing up, but not enough to carry the team.”
“That was a very nice way of calling me weak.”
She tilts her head. “I’m calling you disconnected. From your own body. From your progress. From your goal.”
“I just want to play again. I’m not ready to retire.”
“Then you’re going to have to work. Not just physically.” She touches her temple. “But mentally, too. I’ll have a team to get you out of that funk.”
Her tone shifts on that last line—drops lower. Sincere. Which is worse than sarcasm. It lands somewhere just beneath my ribs. I wish I could say something or just get out of here because I don’t know if I can work with Scottie while I’m a fucking mess.
She moves back to the table and taps through some settings. Her hair slips over her shoulder, and she catches it with one finger, tucking it behind her ear with more precision than necessary.
“You aren’t my only patient, Tate. You aren’t even the most injured. But you might be the most stubborn.”
“Flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
I glance around. “So. You’re stuck with me?”
“No.” There’s something in her voice—amusement, maybe. Regret, probably. “You’re not my client. Not yet. I’ll do the full eval, write the notes, and pass you off to someone on staff.”
I arch a brow. “Why not you?”
“Because I don’t take on grumpy has-beens who also happen to be best friends with my older brother.”
I don’t know if I should feel relieved or insulted. “So, what you’re saying is . . . you’re not good enough to handle my case.”
She levels a glare at me. “I’m not seventeen anymore so that crap doesn’t work on me, Tate. I’m assigning you to a very capable team, and that’s the end of it. Let’s finish your eval.”
But it’s not the end of it.
Not even close. She doesn’t want to deal with me, but I’ll make sure she has to at least see me once a day. Challenge accepted.