Page 12 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)
The way she describes what must have been devastating tells me more about her than anything else has. Emma Anderson hides her pain behind walls. I recognize it because I do the same thing.
“That explains the panic attack after you helped me on the ice.”
Her hands still. “I didn’t have a panic attack.”
“Emma.”
“I had a momentary stress response to an adverse stimulus.” She meets my gaze defiantly. “Clinical term for ‘I freaked out a little.’”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I can’t help but smile. “So that’s why you became a PT? Because of your injury?”
She nods, seeming relieved by the slight change in direction. “I spent over a year in physical therapy. Figured if I couldn’t skate anymore, I could at least help other athletes recover from their injuries.”
“And you specifically chose hockey because…”
A slight flush creeps up her neck. “My brother played. I was familiar with the injuries.”
“Nothing to do with a certain handsome hockey player you met at a championship party?”
“You weren’t even on my radar when I accepted this position,” she says firmly. “In fact, I had no idea you played for the Bears until Tyler told me.”
“Fate,” I suggest with a grin.
“Bad luck,” she counters, but there’s no real bite to her words.
“You wound me, Blondie. ”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Never.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push it further; instead, she guides me through the day’s exercises. There’s a different quality to our interaction now—less tension, more understanding. We both carry scars from the ice, though mine are nowhere near as severe as hers.
By the end of the session, my knee aches, but it’s the good kind of ache. Emma seems satisfied with my progress, making notes on her clipboard as I catch my breath.
“You did well today,” she notes, surprising me with the praise. “Your range of motion is improving, and the stability exercises are showing results.”
“Does that mean I can play tonight?”
She gives me a look that could freeze hell. “Not a chance. But if you continue at this rate, you might be ready for light skating sooner than the initial estimate.”
That’s something, at least. “So, what? Five weeks?”
“Let’s take it day by day.” She begins packing up her equipment. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Actually, I won’t be here tomorrow morning. I’ll be recovering from watching the game tonight. Emotional trauma and all that.”
Emma nods. “Monday, then.”
“Are you watching the game tonight?”
She looks up. “I hadn’t planned to.”
“You should. Good opportunity to see how the Wolves play. Know thy enemy and all that.”
“The Wolves aren’t my enemy, Chase. My brother’s the captain, remember?”
“Right.” I’d almost forgotten that particular complication. “So, who are you rooting for tonight? Bears or Wolves?”
Emma shrugs, zipping up her bag. “I’m neutral.”
“Bullshit.” I grin at her startled expression. “No one’s neutral in a Bears- Wolves matchup.”
“Fine,” she concedes. “I might be slightly biased toward the team my brother’s played on for five years.”
“Traitor.”
“I thought we established I’m not a Bears fan.”
“You work for us now,” I remind her. “That means you have to root for us, at least silently, in the privacy of your own home.”
She shakes her head, but I catch the ghost of a smile. “I should go. I have other patients.”
“Less charming ones, I bet.”
“Less annoying ones, definitely.”
I clutch my chest in mock offense. “You’re breaking my heart here, Blondie.”
“Your heart’s fine. It’s your MCL that’s the problem.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “Good luck to your team tonight. I’m sure they’ll manage without you.”
“Wow. Twisting the knife.”
Her smile is small but genuine. “Just giving you motivation for your recovery.”
After she leaves, I sit there for a while, replaying our conversation. The glimpse into her past, the slight softening of her boundaries, the banter that felt almost friendly. It’s progress, slow but unmistakable.
By the time I make it home, I’m exhausted and irritable, my knee throbbing despite the anti-inflammatory I took after therapy. The house is quiet when I unlock the front door, and I spot Max immediately—curled up on the windowsill in a patch of afternoon sunlight.
I make my way to the living room and stretch out on the couch, elevating my leg as instructed. See, Emma? I can follow directions. I try to distract myself with TV, but nothing holds my interest. My mind keeps drifting to the game tonight, to what I’m missing.
And to Emma. Her confession about her skating accident. The way her hands trembled slightly when she spoke of it, though her voice remained steady. The hint of vulnerability beneath her armor.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and type a message .
Me: Game starts at 7. Channel 6 if you’re interested in seeing what you’re missing.
I stare at the text for a long moment before hitting send. It’s innocent enough, just a nudge to watch the game. Not flirting, not crossing her precious boundaries. But it’s also an opening, a tentative bridge between our professional relationship and something more.
My phone remains silent as minutes tick by. Just as I’m beginning to think she’s not going to respond, it buzzes with a message.
Emma: I know what channel the game is on, Mitchell. I’ve been watching hockey since before you had your driver’s license.
Me: Does that mean you’ll be watching?
Emma: Someone needs to make sure the Bears don’t injure my brother or any of his teammates.
It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. I’ll take it.
Me: You should wear a Bears jersey. It’ll look good on you.
Emma: I’d sooner wear a trash bag. Focus on your recovery, Chase.
I laugh out loud at that, drawing a curious look from Max who’s apparently woken up and moved to the adjacent armchair.
Me: Yes, ma’am. Enjoy the game, Blondie. May the best team win.
I don’t expect another response, but one comes anyway.
Emma: They will. Go Wolves.
I’m still smiling as I set the phone down. Tonight’s going to suck not being able to play as my team takes on our biggest rivals. But somehow, knowing Emma might be watching too, even if she’s rooting for the wrong team, makes it a little more bearable.
And that, more than anything, tells me I’m in dangerous territory with my physical therapist.