Page 11 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Six

G ame day at Pinewood Arena. I’ve been here for countless practices, but tonight is different. The building knows it. The ice knows it. Season opener against the Wolves.

And I’m watching from the fucking sidelines.

I adjust my stance on the crutches—yeah, actually using them now, thanks to Emma’s lecture—and lean slightly to let Coach Barrett squeeze past. He gives me a once-over, his permanently furrowed brow deepening at the sight of my knee brace.

“You look like shit,” he observes.

“Thanks, Coach. Feeling great though. Ready to play tonight.”

He snorts. “Nice try. Ms. Anderson already warned me you’d try something like this.”

Of course she did. A few days of PT with Emma, and she already knows me well enough to predict my attempts to get back on the ice prematurely.

Coach claps a hand on my shoulder. “We need you healthy for the long haul, Mitchell. A couple missed games isn’t worth risking your season.”

“This isn’t just any game though,” I protest. “It’s the Wolves. Season opener. Our rivals. ”

“Follow your recovery protocol, and you’ll be back before you know it.”

He walks away before I can argue further, leaving me leaning on my crutches in the hallway like an afterthought. Like I’m not even part of the team anymore.

It fucking sucks.

I make my way to the bench area, where morning skate is about to start. The guys are already on the ice, running through line rushes and power play setups. My usual spot on the first line is now occupied by Keller, a decent player, but nowhere near my caliber.

“Mitchell!” Donovan skates over when he spots me, spraying ice as he stops at the boards. “How’s the knee?”

“Peachy,” I reply. “My PT says I can play tonight if I just rub some dirt on it.”

He grins, not buying it for a second. “Sure, and I’m secretly Canadian royalty.”

“You’re ugly enough to be inbred.”

“Fuck you very much.” He taps his stick against the boards, his expression turning serious. “We’ll hold it down until you’re back. Just focus on healing up, yeah?”

I nod, swallowing the bitterness that rises in my throat. Donovan’s a good captain, but right now, his concern feels like pity, and I hate it.

“Any tips for Keller?” he asks, nodding toward my replacement.

“Tell him not to suck,” I reply, then relent at Donovan’s exasperated look. “Fine. Tell him to watch Anderson. Guy’s scary on the ice.”

“Will do.” Donovan gives me a nod before skating back to join the rest of the team.

I settle onto the bench, stretching my bad leg out in front of me. Even with the crutches, getting around is exhausting, and my arms and good leg are starting to feel the strain.

Movement beside me pulls me out of my head. Tyler West drops down onto the bench like he’s got nothing better to do, helmet in hand and that trademark smirk on his face .

“Mitchell,” he drawls, voice soaked in fake sympathy. “How’s the knee? Heard Emma’s taking real good care of you.”

The way he says her name makes my teeth clench. “Shouldn’t you be practicing? God knows you need it.”

He shrugs. “Coach ordered me to rest. Tight hamstring.”

Bullshit. He just doesn’t want to sweat through drills.

“Emma’s a talented therapist. Very hands-on.”

My grip tightens on the crutches resting against my knees. “Careful, West.”

“What? I’m speaking from experience. Three years of it, actually.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “Does she still make that little gasping sound when—”

I drop the crutches and lunge before I even register the pain. My hand fists the front of his practice jersey, dragging him forward.

“Finish that sentence,” I growl. “I fucking dare you.”

His eyes widen for a second—surprised, maybe—but then they narrow with satisfaction. He wanted this reaction.

“Mitchell!” Coach Barrett’s voice slices through the air. “Stand down! Now!”

I don’t let go immediately, holding West’s gaze.

Donovan’s suddenly there, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me back. “He’s not worth it, Chase. He’s just trying to get in your head.”

I shove West as I let go, the sudden motion sending another bolt of pain through my knee. I nearly go down before Donovan steadies me.

“West, get back to drills,” Coach snaps. “Mitchell, sit your ass down before you wreck that knee for good.”

West skates off without a backward glance, just as Donovan hands me my crutches with a tight frown. “What the hell was that about?”

I adjust them under my arms, jaw tight. “Nothing. West being West.”

“Well, save the murder for after the game. We need him on the ice tonight. ”

“No promises.”

Coach gives me a warning look before returning to practice, and I sink back onto the bench, my knee throbbing. Emma would kill me if she knew I’d just put weight on it. Especially during a confrontation with her ex. One more thing to add to the list of shit I’m not telling my physical therapist.

As the players file off the ice toward the locker room after practice, a flash of blonde hair in the stands catches my eye. At first, I think it might be Emma, and my heart does a stupid little leap before I realize it’s Carina.

Fuck. Just what I needed today.

She’s making her way down toward the bench area, wearing a Bears jersey that I’m pretty sure used to be mine. Her red-lipped smile is predatory as our eyes meet.

“Chase,” she calls, waving as if we’re still on good terms.

I grab my crutches and move as quickly as I can, hoping to escape before she reaches me. No such luck.

“Chase, wait!” She catches up just as I reach the hallway. “I heard about your knee. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Fine,” I reply curtly. “Shouldn’t you be checking on Tyler? Since you’re such a concerned girlfriend and all.”

Her smile falters slightly. “We’re going through a rough patch.”

“My heart bleeds for you.”

“Don’t be like that.” She reaches for my arm, but I shift away. “What happened between us—”

“What happened,” I cut her off, “is that you fucked my teammate while we were still together. There’s no ‘us’ to discuss.”

Her expression hardens. “You weren’t exactly boyfriend of the year, Chase. What was I supposed to do? ”

“Not sleep with Tyler West would have been a good start.”

She tosses her hair back, a move that used to drive me wild but now just seems calculated. “I made a mistake. People deserve second chances.”

“Not from me, they don’t.”

“But—”

“I’ve got PT,” I interrupt, continuing down the hallway. “Enjoy the game tonight.”

As I hobble away, I hear her call after me, “I saw your new physical therapist, by the way. She’s pretty. Wonder how long before you charm your way into her bed too.”

I ignore her, but the barb hits closer to home than I’d like. Carina doesn’t know about my history with Emma, but she knows about the scandal with my previous PT.

I push thoughts of that aside as I head to the medical wing for my scheduled PT session. Emma’s already there when I arrive, setting up equipment in the treatment room. She glances up as I enter, her professional mask firmly in place.

“You’re late.”

“Good morning to you too, Blondie.” I maneuver myself onto the table, propping my crutches nearby. “Traffic was hell in the fifteen-foot hallway from the rink.”

Emma’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “How’s the knee today?”

“Better,” I tell her, which isn’t entirely true. The dull, constant ache remains.

“Any unusual swelling or pain?”

I think about my near-altercation with West, the way my knee protested when I lunged forward. “Nope. All normal.”

She eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t press. Instead, she begins her usual assessment, fingers probing gently around my knee. Even through her latex gloves, her touch sends a current through me that has nothing to do with pain.

“The swelling has decreased slightly,” she notes. “Any pain with the exercises I assigned yesterday? ”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“That’s not what I asked, Chase.”

I sigh, caught in my evasion. “Fine. The quad sets were uncomfortable. Seven out of ten by the end of the final set.”

Emma frowns. “That’s higher than it should be. Were you doing more repetitions than prescribed?”

“Maybe a few extra.” At her stern look, I add, “I need to maintain muscle mass during recovery.”

“That’s not how this works,” she says, frustration creeping into her voice. “Overworking the muscles creates additional stress on the injured ligament. You’re potentially prolonging your recovery, not shortening it.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just sit around and waste away while my team plays without me?”

The question comes out harsher than I intended, revealing more of my frustration than I meant to show. Her expression softens slightly.

“I understand your frustration. But this is a process, Chase. We have to respect the timeline.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one missing the biggest game of the season.”

“True.” She begins setting up for today’s exercises. “But I know what it’s like to lose something you love.”

The opening is too perfect to ignore. “Figure skating, right?”

Her movements falter slightly. “We should focus on your therapy.”

“Come on, Blondie. Give me something here. I’m bored out of my mind, stuck on these crutches with nothing but daytime TV and PT sessions to look forward to.”

She hesitates, clearly debating whether to shut down the conversation entirely. Finally, she responds, “Yes, I was a figure skater. From age six until fifteen.”

“Competitive?”

“Very.” She adjusts the resistance band for our first exercise. “Junior Nationals. I was on track for Senior level before… ”

She trails off, but I can fill in the blank. “Before you got hurt on the ice.”

Emma nods, her eyes focused on the equipment, not on me. “Compound fracture of my right tibia and fibula. Eight surgeries to put the bones back together.”

“Jesus,” I breathe. “What happened?”

“Failed triple axel during a competition.” Her voice is clinically detached. “I knew something was off during the approach, but I went for it anyway. Landed wrong. Bones went through the skin. End of career.”