Page 13 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Seven

T he applause is deafening. Thousands of people watching, holding their breath as I take position in the center of the ice. Fifteen years old, Junior Nationals, the culmination of nine years of training.

My costume catches the arena lights, glittering in royal blue and tiny crystals my mom spent three months sewing on by hand. Runaway by AURORA starts playing—soft at first, then building.

I move across the ice, feeling the familiar rush of cold air against my face, the smooth glide of my blades. The first jump is a triple Lutz, which I land. The crowd responds, but I tune them out, focused only on the next element.

Double axel-triple toe combination. Executed flawlessly. I’m flying now, confidence building with each successful move.

The program builds toward its climax—a triple axel, the jump that’s been my nemesis and triumph. I’ve landed it in practice, not consistently, but enough to warrant including it in my program. My coach warned against it, but I insisted.

I set up for the approach, gathering speed along the perimeter of the rink. Everything narrows to this moment. The bite of my blades against the ice, the tension in my muscles, the rotation I need to generate .

But something’s wrong. The approach feels off, my weight distribution slightly askew. A voice in my head screams to abort, to turn the triple into a double, to play it safe.

I ignore it.

Three and a half rotations. I’m committed now, my body twisting through the air. Time slows as I recognize the error. I’m under-rotated, coming down at the wrong angle. My right blade hits the ice awkwardly, too much pressure on the outside edge.

The sound comes first—a crack that echoes through the arena, drowning out the music, the crowd, everything. Then the pain, white-hot and all-consuming. My leg gives way beneath me, and I crash onto the ice.

I look down and scream. My right leg is bent at an impossible angle, bone protruding through skin and the thin fabric of my tights, blood spreading across the pristine white ice like spilled paint.

The medical team rushes onto the ice, faces grim as they assess the damage. I’m still screaming, the pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. They try to move me onto a stretcher, but every slight shift sends fresh agony shooting through my body.

But before I can escape into unconsciousness, the ice beneath me begins to crack. Fissures spread outward from my broken body, the surface splintering like thin glass. The medical team doesn’t notice, still focused on stabilizing my leg.

“The ice,” I try to warn them, but no sound comes out.

The cracks widen, and suddenly I’m sinking, the ice giving way beneath me. Cold water closes over my head, pulling me down. I can’t move, can’t swim, my broken leg a useless weight dragging me deeper into the darkness.

I’m drowning, lungs burning for air that isn’t there, the surface growing more distant as I sink. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is a hand reaching down—too far away to grab, impossible to reach.

I wake up screaming, sheets twisted around my sweat-soaked body, heart hammering against my ribs. For a moment, I’m still there. Drowning, dying, the phantom pain in my right leg so real I clutch at it, expecting to find blood and bone.

But it’s just my leg, scarred but whole.

“Emma!” My bedroom door flies open, and Maya appears, her face creased with concern. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

I can’t breathe. My chest constricts, lungs refusing to expand, the drowning sensation from my dream following me into consciousness. Tears stream down my face, and I’m making a horrible keening sound that doesn’t even sound human.

Maya sits on the edge of my bed, pulling me against her chest. “Breathe with me, Em. In and out. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

But it wasn’t just a dream. It happened. Maybe not the drowning part, but the rest—the fall, the bone breaking through skin, the end of everything I’d worked for since I was six years old.

“I was back there,” I gasp between sobs. “On the ice. The triple axel—”

“I know, honey.” Maya strokes my hair, her other hand rubbing circles on my back. “It’s the same one, isn’t it?”

I nod against her shoulder, tears soaking her sleep shirt. The nightmare is always some variation of that day, sometimes with new horrors added by my subconscious. The drowning is a recent addition, one that’s appeared since I ran onto the ice for Chase.

“I thought these were getting better,” Maya says softly.

“They were.” I pull back, wiping at my face with shaking hands. “Then I ran onto the ice for Chase, and now…”

“Now they’re back.” Maya reaches for the glass of water on my nightstand, pressing it into my hands. “Drink. ”

I obey, the cool water soothing my raw throat. The digital clock on my dresser reads 3:17 a.m. Monday morning.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” I apologize once my breathing has steadied.

Maya gives me a look. “Don’t start with that bullshit. You know I don’t care.”

“You have a shift today.”

“And I’ll manage. Not the first time I’ve worked on minimal sleep.” She studies my face. “Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “Same as always. Fall, break, pain. Except now I drown at the end.”

“That’s new.”

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. “Guess my subconscious is really subtle about its metaphors.”

Maya snorts. “Drowning because you’re in too deep with your hockey patient? Real sophisticated, Em.”

“I’m not in too deep with Chase,” I protest weakly.

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t push it further, just adjusts her position. “You watched the game on Friday.”

It’s not a question. She caught me curled up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV as the Bears faced off against my brother’s team.

“Professional interest,” I mutter.

“Sure. And it had nothing to do with a certain injured forward who’s been texting you non-stop.”

I don’t respond. Mostly because she’s right.

“Do you think I made a mistake? Taking this job with the Bears?”

Her expression softens. “Because of the nightmares?”

I nod.

“No,” she states firmly. “Look, the nightmares suck. The PTSD sucks. But you faced that ice for the first time in years, Em. That’s huge.”

“I had a panic attack immediately after.”

“So? You still did it. And next time, maybe the panic won’t be as bad.” She squeezes my hand. “You needed this job, and not just for the money. You needed to stop letting the ice control your life. ”

She’s right, though I’m not ready to admit it. Working with hockey players, being around the ice—it’s a form of exposure therapy I didn’t know I needed.

“What if I can’t do it?” I whisper, voicing my deepest fear. “What if I freeze up during a critical moment? What if someone gets hurt because I can’t handle being on the ice?”

“That’s not going to happen.” Maya’s voice is full of conviction. “You’re the bravest person I know. When Chase went down, you didn’t hesitate. Your training kicked in, and you did your job. The panic came after, when the adrenaline wore off.”

I want to believe her. Need to believe her. “Thanks, Maya.”

“Anytime.” She yawns, stretching her arms above her head. “Think you can sleep again?”

I glance at the tangled sheets, still damp with sweat. “I’ll try.”

“Want me to stay?”

Part of me does—the scared fifteen-year-old part that still wakes up feeling the snap of bone, the flood of pain. But I’m not that girl anymore.

“I’m okay,” I tell her. “Go get some sleep before your shift.”

Monday morning dawns gray and drizzly, matching my exhausted mood. Extra concealer hides the dark circles under my eyes, but nothing can mask the bone-deep fatigue that follows my nightmares.

The Bears’ training facility is quieter than usual when I arrive. Most of the team has the day off after Friday’s win, but Tyler West is there for treatment on a minor shoulder strain.

I spot him in the hallway with Mr. Peterson, and my instinct is to duck into my office before either notices me. Too late.

“Ms. Anderson, good morning,” Peterson calls, waving me over. “We were just discussing the team’s injury report.”

I paste on my professional smile, pointedly focusing on Peterson rather than Tyler. “Anything serious?”

“Fortunately not. Mitchell’s recovery is our primary concern. How’s he progressing?”

“On schedule,” I reply. “Range of motion is improving, swelling is down, and he’s responding well to the strengthening exercises.”

“Good. Management’s been asking when he’ll be back.”

“That won’t be for at least five more weeks,” I state firmly.

Tyler, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks. “Five weeks? That’s what you told him?”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “That’s the standard recovery timeline for a Grade 3 MCL tear.”

“Mitchell’s never been one for standard anything,” Tyler observes with a smirk. “I bet he’s already planning his comeback for next week.”

“His recovery timeline is non-negotiable,” I emphasize. “Returning too soon would risk permanent damage.”

Peterson nods approvingly before excusing himself, leaving me alone with Tyler. The friendly mask slips from his face immediately.

“You look good, Em,” he says, eyes raking over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “The Bears’ medical team suits you.”

“What do you want, Tyler?” I keep my voice even, though my heart rate has picked up.

“Can’t a guy catch up with an old friend?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “We have history, after all.”

“History is the operative word,” I reply. “ Ancient history.”

I try to leave, but he stands up to block my path. “Did you watch Friday’s game? I wonder who you were cheering for, your brother, or your new favorite patient?”

“My personal life is none of your business. ”

“Mitchell’s got a reputation, you know.” He leans closer. “Ask around about what happened with his last physical therapist. Might want to be careful there.”

“Thanks for the concern, but I’m capable of maintaining professional boundaries.”