Page 19 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Ten

“ S o,” Donovan says, dropping onto the bench beside me with a shit-eating grin, “Emma Anderson, huh?”

I don’t bother hiding my own smile. It’s Friday morning, team practice is about to start, and exactly as predicted, the news about me and Emma has spread through the locker room like wildfire.

Guys have been giving me knowing looks since I arrived, a welcome change from the pity and awkward conversations about my knee.

“What about her?” I ask, playing it cool as I adjust my knee brace.

“Don’t play dumb, Mitchell.” Donovan lowers his voice. “You and the new PT? That’s playing with fire, man.”

I glance around to make sure no one’s in earshot, then lean closer. “Actually, we need to talk. It’s not what you think.”

“No?” Donovan raises an eyebrow. “Because what I think is that you two looked pretty cozy at Antonio’s last night.”

“It’s fake,” I blurt out, then immediately regret it when Donovan’s eyes widen. “Shit. Look, I need you to promise me you won’t say anything to anyone. I’m serious, man.”

He stares at me for a long moment, then starts laughing. “Are you serious? What is this, a romance film? Are there gonna be cameras popping out any minute now? ”

“I’m serious,” I hiss, checking again to make sure we’re alone. “Promise me, Donny.”

He’s still chuckling but nods. “Okay, okay. I promise. But what the hell, Chase? Why are you fake dating your PT?”

I run a hand through my hair, realizing how ridiculous this is going to sound. “Tyler won’t leave her alone. Keeps sending flowers, cornering her at events. And Carina’s been trying to get back together since she and Tyler hit a rough patch.”

“So you decided to fake date to solve both problems,” he concludes slowly, like he’s trying to process this. “That’s either brilliant or the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Jury’s still out,” I admit. “But it’s working so far.”

“Just don’t go screwing the one person who’s responsible for keeping your body in one piece,” he warns, though he’s grinning. “Don’t stick your stick where you get stitched, if you catch my drift.”

I groan. “You’ve been waiting to use that one.”

“Damn right. But seriously, man. Fake or not, if this blows up, it’s your season that’s going down with it.”

“It won’t blow up. We have rules.”

Donovan shakes his head, still looking amused. “Famous last words. Just don’t come crying to me when this fake relationship turns into real feelings.”

Before I can respond to that uncomfortable observation, my phone buzzes. I expect it’s Emma, but the name that flashes across my screen makes me grimace.

Carina.

I debate ignoring it, but curiosity wins out.

Carina: Real classy, Chase. Dating your physical therapist to make me jealous? Desperate much?

I show the text to Donovan, who whistles low. “She’s pissed.”

“Good. That was part of the plan.” I type back a quick response.

Me: Not everything is about you, Carina. Have a nice life .

“Mitchell! Donovan! Team meeting in five!” Coach Barrett’s voice cuts across the locker room.

I tuck my phone away and grab my crutches. “Remember, not a word to anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe,” Donovan promises, though he’s still grinning like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened all season.

The team meeting is the usual mix of game footage and strategy discussion. I focus on taking mental notes, determined to stay engaged despite being sidelined. But my mind keeps drifting to Emma. To last night’s dinner that felt far too comfortable to be fake.

For something that’s supposed to be just for show, it’s starting to feel suspiciously real. At least on my end.

After the meeting, I head to the medical wing for my daily PT session. Emma’s waiting, her professional mask firmly in place as she greets me with a clipboard.

“How’s the knee today?” she asks, all business.

“Better,” I reply, which isn’t entirely true. It ached all night.

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Four,” I lie.

“Try again.”

“Fine. Six. But only because I overdid it yesterday.”

Her expression softens slightly. “That’s why we follow the treatment plan, Chase.”

“I know.” I stretch out my leg, wincing as she begins her assessment. “So, word’s out about us.”

Her hands pause briefly on my knee. “I noticed. Three people stopped me in the hallway to ask about ‘that hot hockey player’ I was seen with.”

“Hot, huh?” I grin. “Did you confirm my hotness status?”

“I confirmed nothing,” she counters, but there’s amusement in her eyes. “Unlike your teammates, who’ve been texting me congratulations since dawn.”

“Wait, my teammates have your number? ”

“The medical staff shares contact information with all players at the start of the season. For emergencies.”

“And congratulating you on dating me qualifies as an emergency?”

“According to Miller, yes. Apparently, he had twenty dollars riding on when we’d ‘finally hook up.’”

I laugh, delighted. “The guys were betting on us? Before we even started dating?”

“Apparently. Which means we were less subtle than we thought.”

“Or hockey players are bored and will bet on anything,” I counter. “Last season, there was a betting pool on how many times Coach would say ‘shit’ during one practice. Donny won with seventy-three.”

Emma shakes her head, fighting a smile. “Focus, please. Thirty reps, controlled movements.”

The next hour is pure torture. Emma pushes me harder than she has in any previous session, adding new exercises that leave my muscles burning.

“Jesus,” I gasp after a particularly brutal set. “If this is how you treat your boyfriend, I’d hate to see what your enemies get.”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” she reminds me quietly, though her cheeks color slightly. “This is standard protocol for week two of MCL recovery.”

“It feels like punishment.”

“Good. Three more sets and we’re done.”

I groan, but comply. Emma watches critically, occasionally adjusting my position with gentle but firm hands. Each touch sends a current through me that has nothing to do with physical therapy.

“You’re improving,” she admits when we finally finish. “Range of motion is better than I expected.”

“Does that mean I can ditch the crutches soon?”

“Nice try. Another week at least. Possibly two.”

“You’re killing me, Blondie.”

“I’m healing you. There’s a difference.”

As she turns away to record notes, I take the opportunity to study her. Emma in work mode is different from Emma at dinner last night. Her blonde hair is pulled back, her clothing practical and conservative. But occasionally that professionalism slips, revealing flashes of the woman beneath.

“So,” I say as she finishes her notes, “about tonight. What time should I pick you up?”

“Maya’s driving us, remember? I’ll meet you there.”

“Afraid to be alone in a car with me?”

“Afraid you’ll ignore my medical advice and drive yourself despite being on crutches and pain medication.”

Fair point. “Fine. Text me when you arrive and I’ll meet you outside.”

“Deal.” She hesitates. “Tyler will definitely be there. He texted this morning asking if I was coming.”

“And Carina. She’s already accusing me of dating you to make her jealous.”

Emma’s eyes widen slightly. “What did you tell her?”

“That not everything is about her. Should be an interesting night.”

“That’s one word for it.” She chews her lower lip, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as nervousness. “There’s something else we need to discuss.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Jackson. My brother. He’s going to hear about this, probably within the next twenty-four hours if he hasn’t already.”

“Ah. Captain Anderson of the Wolves, who already thinks I’m the devil incarnate. That should go well.”

“He’s going to lose his mind,” Emma confirms. “Not just because you’re a Bear, but because of the rumors about your past.”

I tense. “I told you what really happened.”

“I know. And I believe you. But Jackson’s protective, and he’s only heard the rumors.”

“So what’s our play? Deny everything? Come clean about the fake dating?”

Emma shakes her head. “No, telling Jackson it’s fake would defeat the purpose. He’d never be able to keep it from Tyler. I’ll handle Jackson. Just be prepared for some hostility. ”

“More than the usual attempt to separate my head from my shoulders?”

“Much more. He once chased a guy two blocks for asking for my number at a bar.”

“Terrifying,” I say, though secretly I’m looking forward to the challenge.

Emma studies me. “This doesn’t bother you, does it? Any of it—the gossip, the complications, my brother potentially trying to murder you?”

“Nope. Makes things interesting.”

“You’re strange, Mitchell.”

“You like it,” I counter with a grin.

She doesn’t deny it, which I count as a win.

As I’m getting ready to leave, a thought occurs to me. “Hey, what exactly did Jackson tell you about me? Before I explained what happened?”

Emma hesitates, clearly uncomfortable. “Just that you had an inappropriate relationship with your PT and things ended badly.”

“Did he mention why I was traded?”

“He said there was a scandal, that it was hushed up.” She meets my gaze directly. “I didn’t believe it even before you told me the truth.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve been on the other side of power dynamics in sports,” she explains simply. “I know what it’s like to be young and vulnerable with adults who are supposed to protect you.”

“Your coaches?”

She nods, her expression closing off slightly. “One in particular. After my accident, when I was trying to come back too soon. He pushed. Said pain was just weakness leaving the body. That champions don’t quit.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I ended up reinjuring myself because I trusted him over my doctors. Another surgery, another six months of recovery. That’s when I finally accepted I’d never compete again.”

“I’m sorry, Emma. ”

She shrugs, the professional mask slipping back into place. “Ancient history. But it’s why I push so hard as a PT. I’ve seen what happens when athletes ignore medical advice.”

“Hence the torture session today.”

She smiles, the tension breaking. “Exactly. Someone has to save you from yourself, Mitchell.”

“Lucky me,” I deadpan, but I mean it more than she knows.

Emma checks her watch. “I have another patient in five minutes. We’ll talk more tonight?”

“Looking forward to it, Blondie.”

Back in the locker room, I check my phone to find several missed texts. One from Emma catches my attention.

Emma: Costumes tonight?

I smile, typing back.

Me: Definitely costumes. I’m going as an injured hockey player. Very convincing, I’ve been practicing for weeks.

Emma: Very funny. Seriously, Chase.

Me: Seriously, wear whatever you want. It’s casual.

I hesitate, then add:

Me: Though if you want to coordinate couples costumes, I’m open to suggestions. Bonnie and Clyde? Morticia and Gomez? Rapunzel and Flynn?

Emma: We’re not that kind of couple. See you tonight.

I grin, tucking my phone away. Fake or not, I’m looking forward to tonight more than I care to admit.

Which brings me to the uncomfortable realization that’s been hovering at the edges of my mind since our dinner last night: this might be fake for Emma, but my feelings are veering dangerously toward genuine.

I like her. Not just physically, though that attraction hasn’t faded. I like her sharp wit, her professionalism, the fierce dedication she brings to her work. I like how she calls me on my bullshit, how she doesn’t let me charm my way out of recovery.

I even like her grumpiness and the softness underneath .

It’s a complication I didn’t anticipate when I suggested this arrangement. And one I’m not ready to examine too closely.

Donovan interrupts my thoughts, walking over with a grin. “So, how’d the session go with your fake girlfriend?”

I flip him off. “Strictly professional, smartass.”

“Sure. So, Emma’s coming tonight?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. Anna likes her. Says she’s got substance, unlike some of the women you’ve dated.”

“Ouch. Emma’s different.”

“I noticed,” Donovan observes, giving me a searching look. “Just be careful, man.”

“I’m always careful,” I assure him.

“Right.” He clearly doesn’t believe me. “Well, party starts at eight. Bring beer, and maybe try not to piss off Tyler any more than you already have.”

“No promises. But I’ll be on my best behavior if he is.”

My phone buzzes again as Donovan leaves.

Emma: About tonight. Should we talk about PDA expectations? Hand-holding? Arm around waist? What’s the minimum required to be convincing?

I debate flirting, but decide against it. Emma’s still skittish about this whole thing.

Me: Couples who’ve been dating a couple weeks would be comfortable with casual touches. Hand-holding, arm around waist, maybe a kiss on the cheek. Nothing too intense, but not awkward either. We should look like we enjoy touching each other.

Emma: Got it. See you at 8.

Short, to the point, very Emma. And yet I find myself smiling as I tuck my phone away.

By the time I reach home, my knee is throbbing. I stretch out on the couch with an ice pack, following at least one part of Emma’s recovery protocol, and find myself oddly excited for tonight .

It’s an opportunity to see if these growing feelings are worth exploring, or if they’re just a product of forced proximity and forbidden-fruit appeal.

Either way, tonight should be interesting. And if nothing else, watching Tyler’s face when I walk in with her on my arm will be worth the price of admission.

I check the clock—four hours until the party. Just enough time to nap, shower, and figure out a bare-minimum costume that won’t clash with whatever Emma decides to wear.

I barely manage to get comfortable on the couch before Max appears from wherever he’s been hiding. He jumps up without invitation, circles twice, and drops his full weight across my chest like he owns the place. His purr rumbles against my ribs as he kneads my shirt with his claws.

“Thanks for the input, buddy,” I mutter, scratching behind his ears. He butts his head against my palm, demanding more attention even as my eyelids grow heavy.

The last thing I remember before drifting off is Max’s steady purring and the weight of him keeping me anchored to the couch. Dreams come filled with blonde hair and green eyes and a smile that’s becoming dangerously important to me.