Page 2 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

I stare at my reflection in the car window, mentally cataloging all the ways this could go wrong. White blouse buttoned to a respectable height, pencil skirt hitting just above the knee, hair tamed into a tight ponytail. I look every bit the professional physical therapist I spent years becoming.

So why does my stomach feel like I just chugged battery acid?

“You’re going to be late,” Maya’s voice filters through my phone speaker. “Also, you look hot. Even in that boring outfit.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not boring, it’s professional.”

“Same thing. For the record, my outfit choice would’ve had you turning heads the second you walked in.”

I huff a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure HR would’ve loved me showing up in a skirt the size of a napkin.”

“Look, outfit aside, you’ve got this, Em. You didn’t bust your ass for years just to have a panic attack in the parking lot.”

She’s right. I didn’t earn my master’s degree by being a coward. I grab my travel mug and bag, then push open the car door.

“I’m going in. Wish me luck. ”

“You don’t need luck. You need to remember that you’re a badass physical therapist who can fix anybody’s shit. Even entitled hockey players.”

I hang up with a smile that fades as soon as I face the Pinewood Bears’ training facility.

It’s a sleek, modern building with floor-to-ceiling windows that give just enough of a view inside—rows of gym equipment, a glimpse of treatment tables, and beyond all of that, the gleaming sheet of ice I know is tucked somewhere in the center.

My chest tightens.

You’re fine. It’s just ice. You don’t have to go near it.

I force myself to move, blocking the memories that threaten to surface. The sound of blades cutting through ice. The whoosh of cold air as I spin. The crunch of bone against an unforgiving surface.

Stop it.

I push the glass doors open and approach the reception desk with what I hope is a confident smile.

“Emma Anderson. I’m the new physical therapist.”

The receptionist—Stacey, according to her nameplate—brightens. “Ms. Anderson! Mr. Peterson asked me to send you right back.”

I follow her down the hallway lined with framed jerseys and team photos. The Bears’ history on display. A history my brother would tell me I’m betraying by being here.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jackson. I ignore it. Whatever big brother lecture he’s prepared will have to wait until after I’ve survived my first day.

Dave Peterson is older than I expected, probably in his sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the build of someone who was once an athlete but has grown comfortable behind a desk. He waves me in, holding up one finger as he finishes his call.

“Yes, I understand, but…” He sighs. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye.” He hangs up and turns to me with an expression that’s half smile, half grimace. “Ms. Anderson. Welcome to the madhouse. ”

His handshake is firm, his office cluttered but organized. Diplomas and certificates cover one wall, family photos another.

“Thank you for the opportunity. And please, call me Emma.”

“I appreciate you coming on such short notice. Our last PT quit after…” He waves his hand. “Well, let’s just say certain players can be challenging to work with.”

“I grew up with a hockey player for a brother. I’m used to stubborn men who think they’re invincible.”

He laughs. “Good. You’ll need that attitude.” He flips open a folder on his desk. “You have impressive credentials. Top of your class, specialized training in sports injuries, particularly lower extremities… perfect for hockey.”

I breathe quietly. I kept my figure skating background off my résumé. The last thing I want is to explain why a former competitive skater has a panic attack just thinking about stepping onto the ice.

“I’m eager to get started.”

“First, let’s go over the team’s current injury roster. We’ve got the usual sprains and strains, nothing too concerning yet. Season’s just about to start.” He flips through some pages. “Mitchell is your biggest challenge. Grade 1 MCL sprain that he’s been playing through for weeks.”

“Mitchell?”

He doesn’t notice my panic. “Chase Mitchell. Cocky son of a bitch, if you’ll pardon my French. Talented, but thinks he’s indestructible. Refuses to rest even when he’s clearly in pain.”

For fuck’s sake.

My stomach plummets. I was so nervous about starting this job that I completely forgot Chase Mitchell plays for the Bears. How could I forget that? The man had his fingers inside me, for crying out loud, and I somehow forgot which team he plays for?

Now I have to deal with my ex-boyfriend Tyler and Chase fucking Mitchell, who’s apparently about to become my patient. The universe really is having a laugh at my expense today .

“He has a history of ditching PT sessions or charming his way out of tough exercises,” Peterson continues. “Our last therapist let him get away with it.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t let any patient dictate their treatment plan.”

He smiles. “Good.”

Maybe it will be okay. Maybe Chase won’t remember me. It was a year ago, one night at a party. He’s probably had dozens of women since then.

But I remember him. His blue eyes. His hands. The way he said my name. The way he called me Blondie in that low, gravelly voice that turned my insides to liquid. The way his fingers felt when he—

Stop it, Emma. For the love of God, stop it right now.

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, suddenly very aware of my body. It’s been a year. A whole year. I should not still be having physical reactions to the memory of one night.

“Let me show you around.” He stands and gestures toward the door. “You’ll have your own treatment room, access to the gym and rehab facilities… and of course, the ice.”

The mention of ice snaps me back to reality. The reason I wake up some nights with my heart racing and my body drenched in cold sweat.

I follow him out, nodding in all the right places as he points out different areas. We pass the gym where a few people are working out. I keep my eyes straight ahead, afraid I’ll see a familiar face among them.

“And here’s your treatment room.” He opens a door to reveal a well-equipped space: treatment table, ultrasound machine, an array of therapy tools lined neatly against the walls.

“It’s perfect,” I reply, setting my bag down. “When do I start seeing patients?”

“I’ve scheduled Mitchell for you at 2 p.m. Might as well throw you into the deep end.”

My stomach drops. Great.

“In the meantime, his file is here, along with the rest of the team.” He hands me a stack of folders. “Familiarize yourself, and I’ll check back before lunch.”

Once he’s gone, I sink into the chair and take a deep breath. I can do this. I’m a professional. Whatever happened between Chase and me was a one-time thing.

When I finally open his file, his team photo stares back at me. Those same blue eyes. That same dimple when he smiles. That same disheveled brown hair that my fingers were tangled in when—

For fuck’s sake, Emma. Get it together.

Why does he have to be so attractive? It would be easier if he had a unibrow or unfortunate teeth or literally any physical flaw I could focus on. But no. Chase Mitchell looks like he was carved from marble by a sculptor with a thing for rugged hockey players.

My phone buzzes again. Jackson. I finally answer.

“What?” I snap.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine. How’s your first day at the enemy camp?”

I rub my temple. “They’re not the enemy, Jack. They’re my employers.”

“They’re the Bears, Em. The fucking Bears. Our biggest rivals. Do you know how this looks?”

“I don’t care how it looks. It was the only position available, and it’s a great opportunity.”

“Is West still playing for them?”

The mention of Tyler’s name sends a fresh wave of nausea through me. Another complication I’ve been trying not to think about.

“Yes. But it’s fine. I’m a professional. I can handle my ex-boyfriend being on the team.”

“Your ex-boyfriend who cheated on you with a puck bunny in your own bed. I should have broken his fucking jaw when I had the chance.”

“And gotten suspended? No thanks. Besides, that was years ago. I’m over it. Over him.”

“Just because you’re over him doesn’t mean you should have to see his smug face every day. ”

He’s not wrong, but I don’t have many options. Jobs for sports physical therapists don’t exactly grow on trees, especially not in Pinewood.

Jackson sighs. “I just… I worry about you.”

His tone softens, and I feel a pang of guilt. He’s been protective of me since our dad died, even more so after my accident.

“I’m fine. I’m a professional. The fact that you play for a different team doesn’t matter.”

“Does Mom know you took a job with Satan’s hockey team?”

I laugh. “Yes, and unlike you, she’s supportive.”

“She doesn’t understand the blood feud.”

“There is no blood feud, you dramatic ass.”

“Tell that to my missing tooth from last season’s playoffs.”

I roll my eyes. “Goodbye, Jack. I have work to do.”

“Be careful around those guys, Em. Especially Mitchell.”

I nearly drop the phone. “What?”

“Chase Mitchell. Womanizer with a shady past. Remember I told you he got caught with his previous team’s physical therapist? It didn’t end well.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “I’m hanging up now. ”

“I’m serious, Em—”

“Goodbye, Jackson.”

I end the call and stare at the wall. Great. Just when I thought this couldn’t get more complicated.

A knock at the door makes me jump. A woman around my age pokes her head in, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun.

“You must be Ms. Anderson.” A warm smile accompanies her words. “I’m Jen, one of the athletic trainers. Peterson asked me to see if you wanted to grab lunch.”

I return her smile, grateful for the distraction. “That sounds great. Call me Emma.”

We head to the staff cafeteria, which is surprisingly nice for a sports facility. As we eat, Jen fills me in on the team dynamics.

“The Bears are a tight group, mostly good guys. A few egos, but that’s professional sports for you.”

“What about Chase Mitchell?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Her expression shifts. “Chase is… complicated. Talented as hell but has this chip on his shoulder. Something happened at his old team. He keeps to himself mostly, except on the ice. And with women.”

“So he’s a player?”

“He has a reputation,” Jen admits. “But I haven’t seen him with anyone serious since he got here. There was some girl last year after we won the Cup, and then he dated someone named Carina for a while, but that ended badly.”

I push my salad around, trying not to think about being that “some girl” from last year.

“They’re practicing now if you want to watch before your session with Chase.”

I hesitate. Watching means seeing the ice.

“You can view from the general medical room,” Jen offers. “There’s a window overlooking the rink.”

That seems safer.

The room is larger than my office, equipped with multiple treatment tables and supplies for quick treatments. Jen guides me to the large window overlooking the rink.

“That’s Mitchell,” she says, pointing to number nine. “You can see he’s favoring his left leg.”

She’s right. Each tight turn brings a flash of pain to his face that he quickly tries to mask.

“He’s going to destroy that knee if he keeps playing like this,” I mutter.

“Good luck telling him that.”

I watch Chase move across the ice, tracking how he skates, where he puts his weight. I force myself to think like a therapist, not like a woman who remembers how those hands felt on her body.

Until he looks up .

His eyes find the window, and for a heart-stopping moment, I’m sure he sees me. A flicker of recognition crosses his face before he turns away.

My phone buzzes.

Maya: How’s it going? Any cute players worth mentioning?

Me: No one worth the trouble.

But as I watch Chase push through obvious pain, I know I’m lying to myself.

Two hours later, I’m still in the medical room, stress-eating a chocolate chip cookie from the cafeteria while reviewing player files. I’ve been avoiding looking at the ice rink again, instead burying myself in medical histories and injury reports.

“Ms. Anderson?”

I turn to find Mr. Peterson standing in the doorway.

“Mitchell will be here shortly. Which is a miracle in itself.”

My heart races. “I’ll be right there.”

He studies me. “You okay? You look pale.”

“Just first-day nerves.”

I follow him down the hallway toward the treatment room, my heart hammering against my ribs. This is it. Professional. Calm. Collected.

My palms are sweating. My heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest. But outwardly, I maintain the cool, collected demeanor of someone who definitely hasn’t touched her patient’s cock before.

Professional. Professional. Professional.

“Mitchell,” Peterson says with a nod as we enter the room. “Good to see you actually showed up. ”

And there he is. Chase Mitchell, sitting on my treatment table like he owns the place, those blue eyes immediately locking onto mine with unmistakable recognition.

Fuck.

“Coach made it clear I didn’t have a choice,” Chase replies, but his gaze never leaves my face.

“Smart man.” Peterson gestures toward me. “You’ll be working with Ms. Anderson today. She’s new, but she specializes in knee injuries. I expect you to listen to her recommendations.”

“Don’t I always?” Chase asks with his most innocent expression, and I can practically feel the charm radiating off him.

Peterson snorts. “Never.” He turns to me. “Ms. Anderson? Your patient is ready.”

This is my cue. I step forward, professional smile firmly in place, even though my entire world just tilted on its axis.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Peterson says, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Mitchell, behave yourself.”

The door closes behind him, leaving us alone.

Chase’s slow smile spreads across his face, revealing that damned dimple that I definitely have not thought about in the past year. “Well,” he drawls. “Blondie. Isn’t this interesting?”

And just like that, my perfect new beginning crumbles around me.

“Mr. Mitchell,” I manage, my voice miraculously steady. “I’m Ms. Anderson, your new physical therapist.”

His smile widens. “Oh, I remember exactly who you are, Emma.”

The way he says my name sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

I am so screwed.