Page 24 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Fourteen

“ S o, are we going to talk about it, or are you just going to keep scrubbing that already clean mug until it disintegrates?”

I look down at the coffee mug in my hands, realizing I’ve been washing the same cup for almost five minutes.

“Talk about what?” I reply, feigning ignorance even though we both know exactly what she means.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you came home last night with swollen lips and that dazed look people get after really good sex.” Maya tilts her head as she leans against the counter.

Heat rises to my cheeks as I rinse the mug and set it on the drying rack with more force than necessary. “It was just a kiss.”

“Uh-huh. And the Titanic was just a boat.”

Something clicks in my brain. “Wait a minute. Why were you out anyway? I thought you couldn’t come with me last night because you had an early shift today.”

Maya freezes mid-reach for her coffee. “Oh, um, I just went to… to the gym.”

“The gym? At ten o’clock at night?”

“Twenty-four-hour fitness centers exist for a reason. ”

I stare at her, but her poker face is surprisingly good. Still, there’s something she’s not telling me.

“Fine. We kissed. In his car. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Her expression softens. “Em, I saw your face when I pulled in. That wasn’t a ‘fake relationship’ kiss. That was a ‘holy shit I’m falling for this guy’ kiss.”

The accuracy hits too close to home. I grab my travel mug, needing something to do with my hands.

“The lines are getting blurry,” I admit quietly. “Between what’s real and what’s for show.”

Maya nods, unsurprised. “What are you going to do about it?”

That’s the million-dollar question. What am I going to do about the way my heart races when Chase enters a room? About how natural it felt to wear his jersey, to taste his lips in the darkness of his car?

“Nothing. We have an agreement. PT sessions stay professional. Public appearances maintain the charade. And it all ends after the Bears-Wolves game next month.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “It’s the smart move. Anything else would be complicated.”

“Life is complicated, Emma. But avoiding real feelings because they’re inconvenient doesn’t make them go away.”

“It’s not just about convenience. There are ethical considerations. Professional boundaries. Not to mention that I swore off hockey players after Tyler.”

“Chase isn’t Tyler.”

“I know that.” And I do. From the way Chase respected my space on Halloween night to how he let me handle Tyler at the bar instead of jumping in to play the hero.

“So what are you really afraid of? That he’ll hurt you like Tyler did? Or that he won’t, and then you’ll have to admit you were wrong about keeping your heart locked away? ”

I hate how well she knows me. “Both. And neither. It’s all happening so fast.”

She wraps an arm around my shoulders, giving me a quick squeeze before grabbing her bag for work. “Just be careful, okay? Not because I don’t trust Chase, but because I know how hard it was for you to put yourself back together after Tyler.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You better. Because that boy looks at you like you’re the Stanley Cup, the Olympic gold medal, and the last slice of pizza all rolled into one.”

With that parting shot, she leaves for her shift, leaving me alone with thoughts too jumbled to sort through before my first PT session of the day.

Which, of course, is with Chase.

“Thirty more seconds,” I instruct, watching Chase hold a wall sit. “Focus on keeping your weight evenly distributed.”

Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched as he fights to maintain the position. We’re three weeks into his recovery, and while he’s made remarkable progress, he’s still pushing harder than he should.

“Time,” I announce, and he straightens, exhaling heavily. “Good. Now, gentle stretching like I showed you.”

“Can we add weight to the leg extensions today?” he asks, toweling off his face.

I study him, noting the slight tremor in his left leg. “No. You’re still compensating with your right side more than you realize.”

“Come on, Blondie. I know my body. I can handle more.”

“And I know knee injuries. Stick to the protocol, Chase.”

Something flickers in his eyes—frustration, impatience—before he nods. “Fine. You’re the doctor.”

“Physical therapist.”

“Same thing. You both torture people and call it healing.”

Despite the tension between us, I smile. “If you think this is torture, wait until we get to balance exercises next week.”

He groans dramatically, but there’s a glint in his eye. This is our normal now. The professional boundaries, the charged awareness beneath. Since our kiss, we’ve been circling each other carefully, neither bringing it up but both acutely conscious of the shift.

“How’s the pain today? And don’t bullshit me.”

“Five out of ten. It was worse this morning. Stiff.”

I frown. “Did you ice it last night like you were meant to?”

His hesitation gives me the answer. “I got distracted.”

“Chase—”

“I know. Ice, elevation, compression. The holy trinity of knee recovery. I had some stuff to deal with when I got home. Lost track of time.”

I bite back the lecture forming on my tongue. “The protocol only works if you follow all of it. Not just the parts that are convenient.”

Our session continues with Chase pushing, me reining him in. By the time we finish, we’re both on edge.

“Same time Thursday?” he asks as he pulls his sweatshirt back on.

“Yes. And ice that knee tonight. Twice. Twenty minutes each time.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a mock salute, then catches my hand as I turn to leave. “Emma. About last night—”

My phone rings, cutting through whatever he was about to say. Jackson.

“I need to take this,” I tell Chase, who nods.

“We’ll talk later,” he promises, pausing at the door with that dimpled smile. “I promise to ice my knee this time.”

As soon as he’s gone, I answer. “Hey, Jack. What’s up?”

“Schedule change. We’re playing the Bears in two weeks. November 15th. ”

My stomach drops. “That’s earlier than expected.”

“TV deal. They want the rivalry game during sweeps week. So we need to have that dinner. Soon.”

The dinner we’ve been putting off. The confrontation I’ve been dreading.

“I’m busy this week. Patients booked solid and—”

“Tomorrow night. Carmichael’s at seven. No excuses, Em. We’re having this conversation before I have to see Mitchell on the ice.”

Chase won’t be on the ice, I almost point out. But that would just pull focus from the more pressing issue.

“Fine. Tomorrow at seven.”

“And bring him.”

I nearly drop the phone. “What?”

“You heard me. Bring Mitchell. If he’s so important to you, I want to meet him officially.”

The idea of my brother and Chase at the same dinner table makes my pulse skyrocket. “That’s not a good idea, Jack.”

“It wasn’t a request. I’m trying here, Em. Meeting him on your terms instead of at the game. Give me that much.”

Put that way, it’s hard to refuse. “I’ll ask him.”

“Good. And Emma? I love you. Even when you make decisions I don’t understand.”

The simple statement makes my throat tight. “I love you too, Jack. Even when you’re an overprotective pain in my ass.”

His laugh follows me as I end the call. Asking Chase to dinner with Jackson seems beyond the scope of our fake relationship agreement. But refusing would either blow our cover or make Chase look like an asshole.

With a sigh, I type out a text.

Me: Emergency. Jackson wants to have dinner tomorrow night. Asked me to bring you. Can you handle a meal with your enemy?

Chase: Dinner with Captain Anderson? The same guy who tried to separate my head from my body last time I played against him? Sounds delightful. What time?

Me: 7 PM. Carmichael’s downtown. You sure about this? It won’t be pleasant.

Chase: I’ve survived worse than a protective big brother. Besides, can’t pass up the chance to see you outside of PT again. We still need to talk.

That last part makes my heart stutter. We do need to talk about boundaries that keep shifting, about kisses that weren’t part of the plan.

Me: I know. Wear something nice. And don’t forget to ice your knee.

Chase: Yes, Ms. Anderson. Twice. Twenty minutes. And I always look nice.

I can’t argue with that last part.

Carmichael’s is Pinewood’s idea of fine dining—white tablecloths, soft lighting, prices that make my credit card wince. I arrive fifteen minutes early, stomach in knots. Jackson is already waiting, nursing what looks like whiskey.

“Starting without me?” I ask, sliding into the seat across from him.

He shrugs. “Liquid courage. Figured I might need it to be civil to a Bear.”

“This feels like an ambush.”

“It’s dinner, not an interrogation.” But the set of his jaw suggests otherwise. “I just want to understand what you see in this guy.”

“You could have just asked me.”

Jackson studies me, his expression softening. “Would you have given me a straight answer if I had?”

“Probably not.”

“Exactly. Hence, dinner.” He leans back, eyes scanning the restaurant entrance. “ He’s late.”

“He’s not late. We’re early. And he’s navigating with a crutch, remember?”

“Right. The knee injury. Convenient timing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just an observation.”

I’m about to press the issue when the hostess approaches, Chase following behind her. He’s dressed in dark slacks and a navy button-down that brings out his eyes.

Jackson stands as they reach our table, his imposing height matching Chase’s. For a moment, they simply regard each other. Then Chase extends his hand.

“Anderson. Thanks for the invitation.”

Jackson hesitates before accepting the handshake. “Mitchell. Thanks for bringing my sister back before curfew the other night.”

Maya must have told him. That traitor.

“Jack,” I warn as Chase takes the seat beside me. “Play nice.”

“I’m always nice. Let’s order drinks, shall we?”

The server takes our orders. Another whiskey for Jackson, club soda for Chase due to his medication, a much-needed glass of wine for me.