Page 29 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Eighteen

I ’ve treated hundreds of injuries. Broken bones, torn ligaments, dislocated shoulders.

I know how to fix those. But nothing in my training prepared me for the helplessness of watching my brother skate out for the biggest game of the season while Chase sat on the bench, taped up and still not cleared.

Game day. Bears versus Wolves. The matchup that was supposed to mark the end of our fake relationship.

Except nothing feels fake anymore.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Maya says, watching me pace our kitchen for the twentieth time this morning. The sunlight streaming through our windows feels too cheerful for the anxiety churning in my stomach.

I grab my coffee mug, take a sip, grimace when I find it’s gone cold. The bitter taste matches my mood perfectly. “I just can’t shake this feeling that something’s going to go wrong.”

The anxiety has been building since my meeting with Mr. Peterson two days ago. I’d expected termination. Instead, I got something more unsettling—a warning that left me more confused than relieved.

“Earth to Emma.” Maya snaps her fingers, pulling me from the spiral of worry. “Where’d you go? ”

“Sorry. Just thinking about Peterson.”

She hops onto the counter, swinging her legs like a child. “I’m surprised you didn’t get fired. Getting caught canoodling with a patient isn’t exactly professional behavior of the year.”

Heat rises to my cheeks as I remember the moment—Chase’s hand on my face, my body between his knees, the intimacy that had nothing to do with physical therapy and everything to do with the connection between us.

“So what now?” Her voice softens. “The game’s tonight, and you two still haven’t had that big conversation about whether this is real or just really good acting.”

“My job, his career. There’s so much at stake.”

“Your happiness isn’t at stake?” The question hits harder than I want to admit. “Because you’re happier with Chase than I’ve seen you in years. Even with all the complications.”

She’s right. Despite the professional minefield and endless complications, Chase makes me feel lighter. Like I can breathe again after years of holding my breath.

But happiness is fleeting. Careers last decades.

“I should start getting ready. Mom’s flight lands in an hour.”

“Coward,” Maya calls after me, but there’s affection in it.

My mother’s arrival brings the usual whirlwind of energy and probing questions. She emerges from arrivals looking effortlessly put-together despite the early flight, her silver hair styled in the familiar bob that never seems to move out of place .

“Emma!” She pulls us both into a hug that smells like her signature perfume and airplane coffee. “How’s my favorite daughter handling tonight’s stress?”

“I’m your only daughter, Mom.”

“Details.” She waves dismissively, linking her arm through mine as we navigate the busy terminal. “Jackson called this morning, all fired up about facing the Bears. Said something about settling scores.”

My stomach drops. The terminal’s fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright, the crowd too loud. “Please tell me he’s not planning to rile Chase up. He can’t even play yet.”

“Well, I might have heard something about protective big brother instincts and rival team tensions.” She squeezes my arm. “But Jackson promised he’d behave. More or less.”

That does nothing to ease my anxiety.

By the time we arrive at Pinewood Arena, it’s pulsing with electricity, the air thick with anticipation and the lingering scent of popcorn and beer.

Bears fans in blue and white create a sea of color on one end, while Wolves supporters in black and silver dominate the other.

The rivalry runs deeper than hockey—it’s civic pride, bragging rights, years of accumulated grievances played out on ice.

“Good seats,” my mother comments as we settle into our section. The view is perfect, close enough to see individual expressions, far enough to take in the full choreography of the game.

On the ice below, both teams complete their pregame routines with military precision. Jackson is easy to spot, his captain’s ‘C’ gleaming under the arena lights as he leads the Wolves through drills. His movements are sharp, focused, carrying the weight of leadership and expectation.

On the opposite end, the Bears work through their own patterns, but my eyes are drawn to their bench where Chase sits.

Even from this distance, his restlessness is palpable.

He leans forward like a caged animal, his entire body radiating the need to be on the ice instead of watching from the sidelines.

“Your boys clean up nice in uniform,” Maya observes. “Which one are you rooting for tonight?”

“Switzerland. Neutral territory.”

My mother laughs, the sound carrying despite the arena’s noise. “Darling, there’s no such thing as neutral when it comes to the men you love.”

The word hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications I’m not ready to face. Through the crowd noise and pregame announcements, my gaze finds Chase again. Our eyes meet briefly across the distance, and he raises his hand in a subtle wave that sends my heart racing.

Could she be right?

The game begins with the intensity of a lit fuse.

These teams don’t need time to build animosity; it exists from the first whistle, born from years of rivalry and personal grudges.

Jackson takes the opening face-off against Donovan, their mutual dislike evident in the aggressive set of their shoulders, the way they crowd each other before the puck even drops.

The first period unfolds in a blur of controlled violence.

Bodies crash into boards with bone-jarring force, skates carve aggressive patterns in the ice, and tempers simmer just below the surface.

The physicality increases with each shift, the referees allowing minor infractions to slide in the name of letting them play.

As the period winds down, my attention keeps drifting to Chase’s increasingly tense posture.

His knuckles are white where they grip the boards, his jaw clenched as he watches his teammates battle without him.

There’s something almost painful about watching him forced to be a spectator to the sport that defines him.

The intermission brings blessed quiet, though my mother and Maya fill it with invasive questions about my relationship status that I deflect.

“So when’s the real first date going to happen?” Maya asks with false innocence. “Now that the fake dating charade is becoming less fake by the day.”

The question lodges in my chest like a physical weight.

Because somewhere between the first lie we told and this moment, the pretense became reality.

The realization settles over me with startling clarity: I love him.

Against all logic, against professional ethics, against every wall I’ve built around my heart.

I love Chase Mitchell.

And I have no idea what to do about it.

The second period erupts with renewed intensity. Five minutes in, the Bears strike first on a power play goal that sends their section into delirium. The celebration is short-lived as the Wolves press harder, desperation sharpening their play into something dangerous.

Midway through the period, I notice Tyler’s behavior shifting. He’s hunting Jackson specifically, shadowing him across the ice with predatory focus. There’s something deliberate about his positioning, something that makes my skin crawl with recognition.

Late in the period, it happens.

Tyler shadows Jackson as he carries the puck toward center ice, but there’s a shift in his weight, a subtle angle of his shoulders that I recognize from years of watching hockey—the stance that signals intent. He’s not going for the puck. He’s going for my brother.

Time slows to crystalline clarity. I can see Tyler’s trajectory, Jackson’s vulnerability, the inevitable collision that will send my brother crashing into the boards with devastating force.

I’m on my feet before conscious thought takes hold, screaming a warning that gets lost in the crowd noise: “Jackson! Look out!”

But someone else sees it too.

Chase, watching from the bench with the intensity of a hawk, recognizes the same stance, the same inevitable conclusion. Without hesitation, without thought for his recovering knee or the consequences, he vaults over the boards and onto the ice.

No helmet. No gloves. No protection except the desperate need to prevent what’s about to happen.

He collides with Tyler at full speed, their bodies meeting with a sickening crack that echoes through the arena.

The impact sends both men tumbling across the ice in a tangle of limbs, but Chase takes the worst of it.

His unprotected head strikes the ice with a sound that cuts through every other noise—sharp, final, terrifying.

The arena falls into shocked silence before exploding into chaos. Players converge from all directions, officials blow whistles, coaches shout instructions that no one can hear over the roar of thousands of people all reacting at once.

But all I can see is Chase, motionless on the ice, a dark stain spreading beneath his head like spilled ink on white paper.

Blood.

My body moves before my mind can catch up, terror overriding everything: my fear of the ice, professional protocol, security barriers. Nothing matters except reaching him, except the man I love lying broken on the surface that destroyed my dreams.

“Emma, wait!” Maya’s voice seems to come from underwater.

I’m pushing past people, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird. The ice looms before me—that gleaming surface of nightmares and shattered aspirations—but Chase is there, hurt, bleeding, and suddenly my phobia seems insignificant compared to his need.