Page 26 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Fifteen

“ T hat’s twenty in a row.” I set down the resistance band, fighting a grin. “Barely even felt it.”

Emma scratches something on her clipboard without looking up. “The goal isn’t to rush through the reps, Chase. It’s to maintain proper form.”

“My form was perfect. You’re just too stubborn to admit I’m ahead of schedule.”

She glances up, green eyes narrowed though I catch the smile she’s hiding. “Your MCL tear was severe. There’s no ‘ahead of schedule’ with this injury.”

“Then explain this.” I lift my injured leg and bend it to ninety degrees with minimal pain. A far cry from where I was weeks ago.

Her professional mask slips as she watches, surprise flickering across her face. “That’s… better than I expected.”

She moves closer, fingers testing my knee for swelling and stability. I’ve gotten used to her touch during these sessions, but it still hits me every time. Not because of the injury. Because it’s her.

“The inflammation has decreased significantly,” she murmurs. “And the stability is improving. You’ve been following the protocol?”

“To the letter. Ice, elevation, the whole boring routine. ”

What I don’t mention are the additional exercises I’ve been doing at home—carefully selected from sports medicine journals. Nothing that would jeopardize my recovery. Just enough to accelerate it without Emma catching on.

She sits back, studying me with the critical eye of someone who knows she’s not getting the full story. “You’re doing something you’re not telling me about.”

Busted.

I shrug, aiming for innocent. “Just taking my recovery seriously. Isn’t that what you’ve been nagging me to do?”

“I don’t nag. I provide evidence-based medical guidance that you consistently ignore.”

“Not this time. I’ve been a model patient.”

“A model patient would tell his physical therapist everything. What aren’t you telling me, Chase?”

Something about Emma makes me want to be honest, even when it might earn me a lecture. “I might have added a few extra exercises. Nothing crazy. Just some strengthening work I found in the Journal of Sports Medicine.”

To my surprise, she doesn’t immediately shut me down. “Show me.”

I demonstrate the exercises, making sure to show how I’ve modified them. She watches closely, occasionally adjusting my positioning.

“These aren’t terrible choices,” she concedes. “But you should have consulted me first.”

“Would you have approved them?”

“Probably not. I prefer a more conservative approach.”

“Which is why I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

“Is that your life philosophy?”

“Only when dealing with stubborn physical therapists who underestimate my healing abilities. ”

Emma rolls her eyes but makes notes in my chart. Four weeks into recovery, and I’m already transitioning from one crutch to occasionally walking unassisted.

“We’ll start next session with these additional exercises,” she says. “But modified to my specifications. And no more secret workout routines.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a mock salute that earns another eye roll.

“We’re done for today.” She hands me my crutch. “Ice when you get home.”

“Wait.” I catch her hand before she can walk away, our fingers tangling briefly. “We still need to have that talk.”

Her expression shifts, professional distance giving way to something more vulnerable. Since dinner with her brother last week, we’ve been dancing around the conversation we both know is overdue.

“I know. But I have patients until seven tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then? Dinner at my place? You can help me cook.”

Her eyebrows rise. “You can cook?”

“I’m a man of many talents, Blondie.” I grin at the faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Seven o’clock. No PT talk, no pretending. Just us figuring out what this is.”

She hesitates, then nods. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

“You want to build a what?” Maya stares at me across the café table, coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips.

“A private ice rink. Nothing fancy. Just a small backyard setup where Emma can practice being on the ice without an audience.”

Meeting Emma’s best friend in secret feels like a spy movie, especially since Maya had been suspicious when I texted asking to meet .

“Let me get this straight,” she says. “You want to build an ice rink in your backyard so Emma can overcome her PTSD about skating?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Even though your relationship is supposedly fake and ending after the Bears-Wolves game?”

I wince. “That’s… part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I knew it.” Maya sits back triumphantly. “You’ve fallen for her.”

No point denying it. “Is it that obvious?”

“To everyone except Emma, apparently.” She studies me. “How real are we talking here?”

“I haven’t been sleeping with her. We’ve had… moments. But nothing’s happened beyond some kissing.”

“And eating her out at Donovan’s Halloween party,” Maya adds, completely unfazed by my shocked expression. “Don’t look so surprised. The walls in our house are thin, and Emma talks in her sleep sometimes.”

Heat rushes to my face.

“It’s not just physical,” I admit. “I want more. All of it. The real relationship, not just the pretend version.”

Maya sips her coffee. “And the ice rink factors into this how?”

“Emma’s fear of the ice is holding her back. She ran out there when I got injured, then had a panic attack afterward. But she still did it—for me. I want to give her a safe place to face that fear.”

“That’s… actually really sweet.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Can you blame me? Your reputation isn’t exactly ‘thoughtful boyfriend material.’”

“Fair enough. But I’m serious about Emma. More serious than I’ve been about anyone.”

Her amusement fades. “You know she’s scared, right? Of getting hurt again. Tyler did a number on her confidence.”

“I know. I’m not Tyler.”

“No, you’re not. You’re potentially worse.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tyler was an obvious asshole. Emma knew what she was getting, even if she ignored the red flags. You’re different. You seem genuine, caring. You make grand gestures like building ice rinks.”

I frown. “How is that worse?”

“Because if you hurt her, it’ll destroy her.” Maya’s eyes are deadly serious. “She’s invested, Chase. More than she wants to admit. So if this is just some conquest—”

“It’s not,” I interrupt firmly. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

After a long moment, she nods. “Okay. I’ll help you with the ice rink.”

“I heard an interesting rumor today,” Mr. Peterson says, crossing paths with me outside the medical suite. “About Ms. Anderson’s treatment protocols for your injury.”

I slow my pace. “What kind of rumor?”

“That she’s accelerating your recovery timeline. Giving you preferential treatment because of your… personal relationship.”

Anger flashes through me. “That’s bullshit. Emma is the most professional PT I’ve worked with. She pushes me harder than anyone else would.”

“West seems to think otherwise.”

Of course. Tyler fucking West.

“West is bitter because Emma chose me over him. His opinion on her professional capabilities means nothing.”

He studies me. “Ms. Anderson’s reputation is important to this organization. As is the integrity of our medical protocols. ”

“Then maybe consider the source of these rumors before lending them credibility. Emma deserves better than to have her professional judgment questioned based on locker room gossip.”

“Perhaps. For what it’s worth, I’ve observed nothing in her documentation that suggests impropriety. But perception matters, Mitchell.”

“I understand. But Emma shouldn’t suffer because of perception. She’s too good at what she does.”

Peterson nods slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll have a word with West about spreading unsubstantiated rumors.”

“Thank you. And Mr. Peterson? Emma doesn’t need to know about this conversation.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Protecting her?”

“She has enough to worry about without adding this to the list.”

The conversation is still simmering when I reach the practice rink for my scheduled observation session. Movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention. Emma, clipboard in hand, is walking along the perimeter of the rink, observing another player’s skating motion.

Until she isn’t.

I see the moment it happens—the subtle shift in her expression, the tightening of her shoulders. She’s too close to the ice, the white surface triggering something that transforms confident Ms. Anderson into frightened fifteen-year-old Emma.

She takes a step back, then another, her breathing visibly accelerating. No one else seems to notice—the coaches focused on drills, other medical staff engrossed in their observations.

Without conscious thought, I’m moving, navigating the stairs faster than my knee appreciates. By the time I reach her, Emma has pressed herself against the wall, her clipboard clutched to her chest, eyes fixed on the ice with the thousand-yard stare of someone reliving trauma.

“Emma.” I keep my voice low, positioning myself between her and the ice. “Hey, look at me.”

Her gaze is unfocused, breathing shallow and rapid .

“Emma,” I repeat more firmly. “Breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four.”

I demonstrate, exaggerating my breathing pattern. Slowly, her eyes find mine, recognition gradually replacing the distant panic.

“Chase?” Her voice is small, confused.

“Right here, Blondie.” I resist the urge to touch her, sensing she needs space. “You with me?”

She nods, color gradually returning to her pale cheeks. “I’m fine. Just got a little…”

“I know.” I shift, ensuring my body continues blocking her view of the ice. “Let’s get some air.”

I guide her toward the nearest exit, my hand hovering near but not touching.

Outside, the air is brisk but refreshing. Emma inhales deeply, color fully returning as she regains composure.

“Thank you,” she says finally, embarrassment evident in how she avoids my gaze. “I don’t usually… it hasn’t happened in a while.”

“You don’t need to explain or apologize.”

“It’s ridiculous. I work in a hockey facility. I should be able to handle seeing ice without freaking out.”

“It’s not ridiculous. It’s trauma.” I lean against the building, taking weight off my knee. “And you handle it better than you give yourself credit for. You ran out onto the ice when I got hurt, remember?”

A small smile tugs at her lips. “And then had a complete meltdown afterward.”

“After you made sure I was taken care of. That takes courage, Emma. Doing what needs to be done despite your fear.”

She looks at me then, really looks at me, green eyes searching mine.

“Why are you being so nice about this?”

“Because I care about you,” I confess. “And I understand what it’s like to have the thing you love most become a source of fear.”

Her expression softens. “Your injury? ”

I nod. “Every time I think about stepping back onto the ice, there’s this voice asking, ‘What if it happens again? What if this time it’s career-ending?’”

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“I don’t talk about it much. Bad for the confident hockey player image.”

“Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell anyone that Chase Mitchell has actual human emotions beneath all that charm.”

“Appreciate it. My brand depends on emotional unavailability.”

She laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. “Your brand is in serious jeopardy, then.”

“Worth it.” The words come out more sincere than I intended.

Before she can respond, the door opens and Mr. Peterson emerges.

“Ms. Anderson. I was about to send a search party. Your next patient is waiting.”

Emma straightens, professional mask sliding back into place. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

He nods, his gaze flickering between us before retreating.

“I should go,” she says, though she makes no move to leave.

“You good?”

She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “I’m good. Thank you, Chase.”

“Anytime, Blondie. That’s what fake boyfriends are for, right?”

The joke falls flat.

“Right,” she agrees, though her expression suggests otherwise. “I’ll see you tomorrow? For dinner?”

“Seven o’clock. Don’t forget.”

She offers a small smile before disappearing back inside, leaving me alone with thoughts too complicated to untangle.

Whatever happens tomorrow, one thing is clear—I don’t want to be Emma Anderson’s fake anything anymore. I want the real thing, complications and all.