Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Jason
They say emotional pain doesn’t appear on MRIs.
Which is a fucking shame, really—because if it did, mine would light up the screen like Christmas at Rockefeller. Bright, blinding, and impossible to ignore.
I step out of Scottie’s clinic slower than I went in, crutches clicking against the pavement like they’re narrating the last ten minutes of my life in Morse code for anyone who wants to laugh at my misery.
My knee throbs. My ego throbs harder. Then there’s that other part—deep in the center of my chest—that still replays a night that happened over a decade ago like it’s a glitching highlight reel.
That part of me isn’t doing so hot either.
The city blares around me in full sensory assault—cars honking, someone yelling into a Bluetooth headset like it’s two-thousand-and-six, a toddler losing it over a dropped juice pouch. Manhattan is doing the absolute most; I could typically handle it. But right now?
Everything feels overwhelming.
Too loud. Too bright. Too . . . final.
I hover at the curb, my pulse drumming in my throat, and jab at my phone as if it’s to blame for all of this. Jacob’s name lights up, and he picks up by the second ring.
“Jason. You live.”
“Barely,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on the crutch. I sound like I just crawled out of a shopping center during an after-Christmas sale—not a damn PT eval.
He sighs. It’s probably relief and some kind of silent thank fuck. “How was it?”
“Thorough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Scottie—who you failed to mention would be seeing me—joked about goat yoga and told me a team would be in touch.” I pause, then clarify, “A team. Not her. Just . . . a vague, disembodied team.”
“Oh. I thought she’d be the one . . .” His voice trails off, like even he doesn’t believe that anymore.
“Scottie Crawford isn’t a fan,” I state, without filling him in, of course.
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
I scoff. “Pretty sure she wants to toss me off the roof and frame it as an accident.” I try to say it like a joke, but I can’t even disguise its truth.
Jacob laughs anyway because he’s used to me hiding behind sarcasm. “Wouldn’t be the worst PR play. Injured vet. Tragic fall. Come comeback story. Very Lifetime meets the Sports Network. I can work with that.”
“What the fuck, McCallister?”
“Too far?”
“Ya think?”
He chuckles, and I grip the parking meter beside me before I say something dumb like, Can you bring me whiskey and maybe a hug?
I stare through the glass doors behind me.
Hoping she doesn’t come out.
Hoping she does.
I hate feeling this way—like some idiot who never realized how to let go. But Scottie always had a way of getting under my skin and staying there—like a bad hit I never fully recovered from.
“I think that’s the issue,” I say, dragging my eyes away from the entrance. “She’s not taking me on.”
“She will.” Jacob’s voice is annoyingly confident. “She’s Scottie. She doesn’t do easy.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
There’s a pause. A guy walking by mutters something about sidewalks not being personalized benches. I could flip him off, but I just shifted half an inch to the left. And give him a look that says, Happy?
“You really think I can do this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Jacob doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, but more importantly—you want to.”
And that shuts me up. He’s right. Wanting this—really wanting it—means signing up for more than just the rehab.
It means pain, risk, and the very real possibility of falling flat on my face.
But it also means her. If Scottie Crawford is my last shot, then it’s not just my knee I’m gambling with—it’s every part of me I’ve tried to bury for the last ten years.
The thought lands somewhere deep. Not painful, exactly—just off-kilter, like something shifted when I wasn’t looking.
I hang up without saying goodbye because that’s who I am lately. Cranky. Tired. Stripped of whatever charm people used to think I had.
Back in the apartment, everything feels too still.
An open protein bar is abandoned on the counter, hardened at the edges like a metaphor for my career.
The half-drunk water bottle I left earlier sweats on the granite.
My rehab notebook sits on the table—a page titled ‘Milestones I Should’ve Hit By Now.
’ I stare at the scribbled bullet points until they blur.
I should stop journaling. Or at least stop pretending it’s motivating me enough to progress.
The air’s stale. Too warm. And I’m suddenly hyperaware of how quiet everything is when there’s no rink, no teammates yelling over one another, no chirping about drills or line changes.
No stupid pre-game playlists blaring in the locker room.
Just me.
And the way failure hangs in the air like it owns the lease.
I lower myself onto the couch like I’m defusing a bomb—the brace squeaks in protest, a mechanical whimper. The crutches hit the floor with a dull thunk I feel somewhere in my chest. I lean back, legs outstretched, and grab my phone.
I should’ve done this yesterday. Fuck, I should’ve done it weeks ago, back when Jacob first mentioned the favor he was calling in. I open the clinic’s website.
It has a minimalist design with neutral tones like the place is advertising: I’m not intimidating, but I’m here to heal you while looking cool as hell doing it.
The scrolling banner flashes images of state-of-the-art equipment, sunlit treatment rooms with reformers and resistance racks, cryotherapy pods, and a hyperbaric chamber that looks like it belongs in a superhero movie.
There’s a turf track and a vertical jump station.
It screams elite-level rehab—not country club fluff.
I pause on a video.
Scottie.
Hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand. She’s moving through a group session like she was born doing it—correcting form, tapping into muscle memory, pushing without ever raising her voice. She’s focused, composed, and unapologetically in control.
She’s good. I mean, she’s always been good at everything she does, but witnessing it?
It hits different.
Beneath the video is a short bio. Ella “Scottie” Crawford.
Founder. Former professional soccer player.
Specializes in post-op recovery and neuromuscular rehab.
The write-up is polished and professional—nothing like the girl I remember with turf burns on her legs and a fire in her eyes that dared anyone to tell her she couldn’t make a come back.
But I know the real story. Or at least, I know my version of it.
When her injury happened, I was at training camp in Vancouver—fighting for a spot, trying to prove I belonged on the first line. I flew back the second I read the news. It wasn’t just a tweak. It wasn’t a ‘give it a week, and you’ll be fine’ injury. It was the kind that rewrites your entire future.
Career-ending bad.
I showed up at the hospital like an idiot—with coffee and a backpack full of distractions, thinking maybe I could make her laugh and take her mind off the unthinkable. I didn’t even get past the waiting room. She wasn’t seeing anyone outside of her family.
I sat in the rental car for an hour that night, phone in hand, waiting for something. A message. A sign. Someone telling me I could come in.
No one ever sent it.
After that, whatever was between us hardened into silence—solidified by the gradual unraveling of my friendship with Leif.
We were still friends, still checking in on each other here and there, but it was never quite the same since we lived in different states.
Not until now—now that we’re back on the same team.
But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting—that she shut me out. That she didn’t let me be there when everything fell apart for her—because maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be here now, watching her through a goddamn website video as if she’s someone I barely know.
I scroll down. Services: Cross-Conditioning.
Lower Body Mobility. Return-to-Sport Protocols.
Performance Re-entry. Injury to Elite. They should add ‘Emotional Whiplash Therapy’ to the list. Watching Scottie in her element—confident, capable, and completely in control—it messes with my head more than the pain in my knee ever could.
I close the tab before I spiral any further. That part of me that’s always rooted for her? Still there. Even if I don’t know where I stand anymore.
And now she’s the one with the clipboard.
She gets to decide if I’m worth saving—and I’m not sure I’d blame her if she didn’t.