Page 10 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

“I trust you,” he murmurs, and something in his tone makes me glance up. His eyes are steady on mine, unexpectedly sincere.

I clear my throat and focus on the task at hand, carefully removing the brace. The swelling is significant but not alarming, the skin discolored with bruising. I probe gently around the joint, watching his face for signs of pain.

“Tell me if anything feels particularly tender.”

He watches me work, unusually quiet. When I hit a sensitive spot on the inside of his knee, he inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away.

“There?”

“Yeah.” His voice is tight. “That’s where it popped.”

I nod, continuing my assessment. His skin is warm beneath my gloved fingers, the muscle definition impressive even in his injured state. I test his passive range of motion, bending his knee carefully.

“The good news is there doesn’t appear to be any additional damage to the other ligaments or meniscus,” I tell him. “The MCL has good blood supply, so it typically heals well without surgery if given proper time and rehabilitation.”

“And the bad news?”

“You’re still looking at six weeks minimum before you can return to play.” I replace the brace, securing it properly. “And that’s assuming you do as you’re told.”

Chase is quiet for a moment, a shadow crossing his face. “We’re playing the Wolves on Friday. Season opener. I should be out there.”

For the first time since I met him, I see a crack in his confidence—a glimpse of genuine vulnerability that catches me off guard.

“There will be other games,” I say, softening my tone slightly.

“Not like this one. We’ve been preparing for this match-up all summer.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident. “Donovan’s a great captain, but we need every advantage against the Wolves.”

“Even you at a hundred percent couldn’t guarantee a win, Chase.”

“No, but I’d rather be out there trying than stuck being useless.”

As much as I want to maintain my professional distance, I can’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy. Athletes define themselves by their ability to perform.

“Let’s focus on what we can control,” I suggest, reaching for a resistance band. “The sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be back on the ice. ”

He nods, visibly pulling himself together. “What’s first?”

I talk him through a series of gentle isometric exercises designed to maintain muscle tone without stressing the injured ligament. To my surprise, Chase follows my instructions perfectly, his focus absolute as he performs each movement exactly as demonstrated.

“Good,” I comment when we finish the first set. “Now we’ll work on some gentle mobility.”

“Already done more than I expected today,” he admits. “The team’s previous PT would have just had me icing it at this stage.”

“Different philosophies. I believe in active recovery right from the start.” I demonstrate the next exercise. “The key is finding the balance between rest and movement.”

“Where did you train?”

“Duke University, with a specialization in sports medicine and lower extremity injuries.” I adjust his form slightly. “I did my clinical rotations with several professional teams.”

“But not hockey teams?”

I hesitate. “No, not hockey.”

“Yet here you are, working for the Bears.”

“It was the only position available,” I explain. “And despite what my brother thinks, the Bears are a respected organization with excellent facilities.”

“Your brother really hates us, huh?”

I can’t help but smile. “He’s captain of your biggest rival. It’s practically in his job description.”

“Fair point.” Chase watches me adjust the resistance band. “How long has he been with the Wolves?”

“Eleven years. He was drafted right out of college.”

“And you followed him into sports medicine?”

“Actually, I was the athlete first,” I admit. “Figure skating. Jackson didn’t start hockey until after I was already competing.”

Chase’s eyes widen with interest. “Figure skating? That explains a lot.”

“Does it? ”

“Your reaction to the ice yesterday. The panic attack after you helped me.” His gaze is too perceptive, too knowing. “Something happened to you on the ice, didn’t it?”

I focus on arranging the next exercise, avoiding his eyes. “We’re not here to discuss my past.”

“No, we’re here to fix my knee. But I think I deserve to know why my physical therapist has a panic attack at the mere thought of being on ice.”

“It doesn’t affect my ability to treat you.”

“It might affect my trust in your expertise.”

That stings. I look up sharply, meeting his gaze. “My personal history has nothing to do with my qualifications as a physical therapist.”

“Maybe not. But it has everything to do with why you ran onto the ice for me yesterday, despite being terrified, and then needed your friend to practically carry you off.”

“I did my job,” I say stiffly. “That’s all that matters.”

Chase studies me for a long moment, then nods. “For now.”

The implied threat that he’ll continue pushing for answers hangs between us as we complete the rest of the session.

By the end, Chase is showing signs of fatigue, his movements less precise, his jaw tight with suppressed pain. I notice, but don’t comment, silently adjusting the intensity of the last few exercises.

“That’s enough for today,” I declare after the final set. “You did well, especially for the first session post-injury.”

“Thanks.”

“Ice for twenty minutes, then rest with your leg elevated.” I pack up my equipment. “I’ll be back tomorrow at the same time. We’ll progress the exercises if your knee responds well overnight.”

“Looking forward to it,” he admits, and despite everything, I think he means it.

I help him position the ice pack around his knee, acutely aware of the way his breath catches when my fingers brush a sensitive area .

“This should be secure enough.” I step back, removing the gloves and dropping them in my bag. “Remember, no weight-bearing unless absolutely necessary, and use the crutches if you have to move around.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes meet mine, a hint of his usual mischief returning. “If I’m good, do I get a reward next session?”

“The reward is your MCL healing,” I reply dryly. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Depends on what the alternative rewards might be.”

“Chase,” I warn.

“Sorry, sorry. Rule number two: no flirting.” He mimes zipping his lips. “I’ll be good.”

“See that you are.” I gather my things, heading for the door. “Call if you have any concerns or unusual pain. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Emma,” he calls as I reach the door. I turn, finding his expression more serious than I’ve seen it. “Thank you. For yesterday. For coming onto the ice for me when you were scared.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. “Just doing my job,” I repeat, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

His smile is small but genuine. “Well, thank you anyway.”

I nod and let myself out.

In the safety of my car, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, exhaling slowly. One session down, countless more to go. Six weeks of walking the tightrope between professional and personal, trying to ignore the chemistry that still sparks between us.

Six weeks of pretending I don’t notice the way his eyes follow me around the room, the way his smile makes my stomach flip, the way his vulnerability about his injury affected me more than it should have.

Six weeks of lying to myself that I can handle this.