Page 28 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Seventeen

“ Y ou’re sure about this?” Emma studies the papers in her hand, brow furrowed. “The MRI still shows significant healing needed in the lateral section of the ligament.”

“But the stability tests are all positive,” I counter, trying to keep desperation from my voice. Five and a half weeks of recovery has led to this moment—the possibility of stepping onto the ice again. “You said yourself my progress is remarkable.”

“Remarkable doesn’t mean complete.” She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I’ve learned to recognize. “There’s a difference between walking unassisted and skating, Chase.”

“I know my body. I’m ready for this, Emma. Please.”

The plea in my voice must register because her expression softens. We haven’t even discussed what happened the other week—the way her body responded to my touch in front of the mirror. Nothing has happened since then, just our usual bickering and getting on with my rehabilitation.

“Controlled environment only,” she finally says. “No stick. No puck. No other players. Ten minutes maximum.”

Relief floods through me. “Thank you. ”

“Don’t thank me yet. This is a test, not a clearance. If I see any signs of pain, you’re done until next week.”

“Yes, Ms. Anderson. Crystal clear.”

“I mean it, Chase. The Bears-Wolves game is in three days. I’m not clearing you for that regardless of how this goes.”

The reminder of the upcoming game—the one we’d originally agreed would mark the end of our fake relationship—sends an unwelcome jolt through me.

The sensation of lacing up my skates after nearly six weeks feels both familiar and strange, like returning to a childhood home to find everything slightly rearranged.

My fingers move automatically—pull, tighten, loop, cross—while my mind races with anticipation and fear. What if my knee isn’t ready? What if I step onto the ice and it buckles?

I push the thoughts away, focusing on the rhythmic tightening of my laces.

Emma is speaking with the assistant coach when I enter the rink area, her hands moving emphatically as she explains the parameters of my test skate. The coach nods, glances my way, then returns to Emma with a frown.

He’s not ready.

I’ll show them both just how ready I am.

The rink is empty save for a single attendant resurfacing ice. Emma meets me at the boards, her face tinged with worry.

“Remember the rules. Gentle strokes, no crossovers, no quick stops. Just a smooth glide to test stability. ”

“I remember.” I reach for her hand, squeezing it despite the coach’s curious gaze. “It’ll be fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced but steps aside, clipboard ready.

I take a deep breath, facing the expanse of ice. The first step is the hardest—transferring weight from solid ground to blade. My injured leg trembles slightly but holds. The second step is easier, muscle memory taking over.

And then I’m on the ice, gliding forward with cautious strokes, the familiar whisper of steel against frozen surface filling my ears. My body remembers this, craves it, even as my mind catalogs every sensation in my healing knee.

Tightness, but no pain. Pressure, but no instability.

I complete a slow lap, confidence building with each stroke. Glancing toward the boards, I catch Emma watching, her knuckles white around her clipboard.

As I complete a second lap, I notice her posture growing rigid, her gaze fixed on the ice with intensity that seems odd. She’s not anxious about my knee. She’s fighting her own demons, her PTSD triggering as she watches me skate.

Without hesitation, I glide toward her, stopping with a gentle snowplow.

“Hey,” I say softly, reaching across to touch her arm. “You okay?”

She startles, pulled from deep thoughts. “Fine. How’s the knee?”

“Knee’s good. You’re not.” I lower my voice. “You don’t have to stay if it’s too much.”

“I’m fine. It’s my job to monitor you.”

“Your job doesn’t require you to trigger your own trauma.”

“No.” The word comes out forcefully. “I need to do this. For both of us.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on me. She needs to face her fear just as I need to test my knee.

“Okay. But I’m cutting this short. Five minutes is enough for today. ”

“Chase—”

“My knee feels good, but not great,” I lie, knowing she’ll insist I continue if I admit the truth. “Better to ease into it.”

Relief flickers across her features. She’s about to respond when movement near the entrance catches our attention.

Carina stands in the doorway, her expression thunderous as she spots us together.

“Shit,” I mutter, immediately moving toward the gate. The last thing Emma needs is a confrontation while she’s already struggling.

“Is that—?” Emma begins.

“Yup.” I step off the ice as Carina begins stalking toward us. “Let me handle this.”

“Chase Mitchell.” Carina’s voice carries across the space, drawing curious glances. “I thought I might find you here.”

“Carina. Practice ended an hour ago. Team areas are restricted.”

“Clearly not for everyone.” Her gaze slides to Emma, assessing and dismissive. “Your new… physical therapist seems to have full access.”

I feel Emma stiffen beside me.

“Ms. Anderson is monitoring my recovery. Which you’re interrupting. Did you need something?”

Her laugh is sharp. “Don’t play dumb, Chase. You know exactly why I’m here.”

“I wish I did. But now is not the time for whatever it is.”

“It’s never the time with you, is it?” She steps closer. “Not when I wanted to talk about our relationship, not when I tried to apologize, and certainly not now that you’ve found yourself a new distraction .”

The accusation hangs in the air, aimed as much at Emma as at me. From the corner of my eye, I spot Tyler among the gathering crowd, looking embarrassed.

“You’re making a scene, Carina. Whatever you came to say can wait.”

“Why? Afraid your new girlfriend will realize she’s just a pawn in your game?”

Emma makes a small sound beside me—disbelief and indignation. Before I can respond, she steps forward .

“I’m standing right here,” she challenges. “If you have something to say about me, say it to my face.”

Carina’s eyes narrow, clearly not expecting direct confrontation. “Fine. You’re being used. Chase doesn’t care about you. He’s using you to make me jealous, just like he used every girl after me.”

“Is that what Tyler told you?” Emma asks.

She blinks, thrown off balance. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t he? Because it seems to me that you and Tyler are the ones playing games, not Chase. And frankly, your jealousy tactics are getting old.”

Pride swells in my chest. She’s magnificent when she’s angry.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carina spits. “You don’t know him like I do.”

“Clearly I know him better,” Emma replies evenly. “Because the man I know wouldn’t use someone the way you’re suggesting. That sounds more like projection.”

The assembled teammates make sounds of appreciation—low whistles, a muffled “damn” from Donovan.

Her face flushes as she realizes she’s losing control. Her gaze swings wildly before settling on Tyler.

“Tyler! Tell them. Tell them how Chase is just using her to get back at us.”

All eyes turn to Tyler, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Carina, let’s go,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “This isn’t the place.”

“Not until you tell the truth!”

He shifts uncomfortably, glancing between Carina and Emma. Finally, he sighs. “Look, I don’t think… I mean, they seem pretty genuine to me.”

The admission costs him, especially with Emma watching. But something about his expression suggests he means it.

Carina’s face crumples before hardening into cold fury. “You’re all pathetic,” she hisses, turning on her heel and storming toward the exit. “Especially you,” she adds, shooting a venomous look at Tyler .

As the door slams, tension breaks. The group disperses slowly, a few players stopping to clap me on the shoulder.

“Well,” Emma begins once we’re alone. “That was…”

“Mortifying? Dramatic? A perfect example of why you shouldn’t date teammates’ exes?”

“I was going to say ‘unexpected,’ but all of those work too.” A small smile plays at her mouth, though her eyes remain troubled. “Are you okay?”

The question catches me off guard. After everything—Carina’s accusations, the public spectacle—Emma’s first concern is for me.

“I’m fine. More worried about you. That was a lot, and you were already dealing with the ice thing.”

She waves away my concern, though I notice her gaze carefully avoiding the rink. “Professional hazard. Plus, I’m used to dramatic patients.”

“Is that what I am to you? Just a patient with a complicated personal life?”

Her expression shifts. “You know you’re more than that, Chase.”

“Do I?”

“We should get you to the treatment room. I need to do a physical assessment after your first time on the ice.”

I consider pushing, demanding the conversation we’ve been avoiding. But the public arena isn’t the place. So I nod, following Emma to the treatment room.

As she closes the door, she gestures for me to sit on the table. Neither of us speaks as she removes the knee brace and begins her assessment.

“How did it really feel?” she asks finally. “On the ice. The truth this time.”

“Good. Stable. A little tight, but no pain.”

She nods, continuing her examination. “The structural integrity is definitely improving.”

“You were scared,” I observe quietly. “When I was on the ice. Not for my knee, but because of the ice itself. ”

Emma stills, her pen hovering above the clipboard. For a moment, I think she’ll deny it. But she surprises me.

“Yes. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid. Fear isn’t rational, Emma. Especially not when it’s tied to trauma.”

“I should be over it by now. It’s been ten years.”

“Some scars take longer to heal.” I gesture to my knee. “And they all leave marks, visible or not.”

She lets out a shaky sigh. “I was scared for you too. When you stepped onto the ice. Scared your knee wouldn’t hold.”

“I know. I could see it in your face. You care.”

“Of course I care. You’re my patient.”

“Just your patient?” I press.

Emma meets my gaze, conflicting emotions warring in her eyes. “You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Doesn’t it?” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. “You heard Mr. Peterson’s warnings. My job, my reputation—”

“We can figure it out.” I tug her close, until she’s standing between my knees. “If this is real, Emma, what’s between us, then we find a way.”

“And is it? Real?”

“It is for me. Hasn’t been fake for a long time, if I’m honest.”

Emma’s breath catches, her free hand coming to rest hesitantly on my shoulder. “Chase—”

“I’m scared,” I confess, cutting her off. “But not about skating or my knee. I’m scared about when the Bears play the Wolves, and our arrangement is supposed to end. I’m scared of going back to just being your patient.”

Her eyes widen at my honesty. “I don’t… I’m not sure what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything yet.” I reach up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just think about it. About us. About whether what we started is worth exploring for real. ”

She leans into my touch, eyes drifting closed. When they open again, there’s clarity there, a decision forming. “Chase, I—”

The door swings open without warning, Mr. Peterson’s voice preceding his entrance. “Ms. Anderson, I wanted to discuss Mitchell’s clearance for—”

He stops abruptly, taking in the scene—Emma standing between my legs, my hand on her face, our bodies close in a way that can’t be construed as professional.

Emma jumps back, nearly tripping. “Mr. Peterson! I was just completing Mitchell’s post-skating assessment.”

His expression remains neutral. “I see. And does your assessment protocol typically include such… close physical proximity?”

Emma’s cheeks deepen from pink to scarlet. “No, of course not. I was just—”

“It’s my fault,” I interject. “I asked a question about my rehabilitation that required Ms. Anderson’s close attention.”

Peterson’s eyebrow rises. “Indeed. Well, I’ll leave you to complete your… assessment. Ms. Anderson, my office afterward, please.”

With that ominous request, he exits.

“Shit,” she mutters, pressing hands to her heated cheeks. “That’s the second time he’s caught us in a compromising position.”

I start laughing, unable to help myself.

“This isn’t funny, Chase.” She moves to the sink, splashing cold water on her face. “Peterson has been warning me for weeks. This could be the final straw.”

“I’ll talk to him. Explain that I initiated the contact.”

“That won’t help. If anything, it’ll just confirm his suspicions that our relationship is affecting my professional judgment.”

“So what do we do?”

She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “I finish your assessment. You get dressed. I go talk to Peterson. And we be more careful. ”

“Emma—”

“We’ll talk later,” she promises, her professional mask sliding back into place. “After I speak with Peterson.”

I nod, accepting the temporary delay even as frustration builds. One step forward, two steps back.

But as Emma completes her examination, I make a silent promise: This isn’t over. Whatever is growing between us is worth fighting for.

Because Emma Anderson might just be the biggest, most worthwhile risk of my life.