Page 3 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Two

“ P ain is just weakness leaving the body.”

At least that’s what my father always said—and right now, as my knee threatens to buckle beneath me on a routine crossover, I’m calling bullshit on that particular piece of fatherly wisdom.

I grit my teeth and push through the drill anyway, because that’s what Mitchell men do. We don’t show pain. We don’t acknowledge weakness. We sure as hell don’t sit out practice because of a “little sprain.”

“Again!” Coach Barrett shouts, blowing his whistle with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Mitchell, tighten up that left turn!”

I nod, swallowing the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove that whistle. The ice beneath my skates feels particularly unforgiving today, each stride sending a jolt of pain up my leg. But I’ve been playing through this for weeks now. What’s another practice?

“You look like shit,” Donovan says as he skates past me. “Still not getting that knee checked out?”

I flash him my signature Chase Mitchell grin, the one that’s gotten me out of speeding tickets. “Don’t worry about me, Donny. I’m indestructible.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot is what you are. ”

Maybe he’s right. But hockey is all I have. It’s the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense, the only place where I truly belong. I’m not about to let a small sprain take that away from me.

“Line up!” Coach yells, and we fall into formation for shooting drills.

I find my spot, trying to ignore the way my knee protests even the simple act of standing still.

My gaze drifts up to the observation window of the medical room.

Usually empty during morning practices, but today someone’s there.

A woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, watching the ice with an intensity that catches my attention.

Something about her seems familiar, but I can’t place her.

The whistle blows, yanking me back to the present. I take my turn in the shooting drill, firing a slapshot that whizzes past our goalie’s glove. The twisting motion sends a bolt of agony through my knee that nearly drops me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, catching myself on my stick.

West skates by, smirking. “Knee acting up again, Mitchell? Maybe you should sit this season out. I can replace you.”

Tyler West. The bane of my existence since I joined the Bears. He’s had it out for me from day one, for reasons I’ve never understood. Though I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I took his spot on the first line.

Or maybe it’s because I had his ex-girlfriend come all over my fingers at last year’s championship party. That might be a factor.

I suppress a grin at the memory. Not that I knew she was his ex at the time. Emma never mentioned it, and I certainly wasn’t asking questions when I had her pressed against that bookshelf, her dress hiked up and her lips on mine.

“In your dreams, West,” I reply, straightening up. “The day I let you take my ice time is the day I hang up my skates for good.”

His eyes narrow, but he skates away without another word. Typical.

Practice drags on for another forty-five minutes. By the end, I’m sweating not just from exertion but from the effort of hiding my pain. When Coach finally blows the final whistle, it takes everything in me not to visibly sag with relief.

“Good session, boys,” Coach says as we gather around. “Few announcements before you hit the shower. First, our new physical therapist starts today. Ms. Anderson comes highly recommended, so I expect you all to show some respect.”

A few of the guys snicker. We’ve been through three PTs in the past year.

“Second,” Coach continues, shooting a glare at the ones laughing, “some of you have mandatory medical check-ins this afternoon.” His eyes land on me. “Mitchell, you’re at two. Non-negotiable.”

I open my mouth to protest, but the look he gives me shuts me down.

“And before you try to charm your way out of it,” he adds, “Peterson said if you miss this one, you’re benched for Friday’s game.”

That gets my attention. Friday is our first home game of the season.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll be there.”

The guys disperse, heading for the locker room, but I linger on the ice. This is my favorite part of practice—when everyone else is gone and it’s just me and the empty rink.

As I round the far side, I glance up at the medical room window again. The blonde woman is still there, watching. When she realizes I’ve spotted her, she steps back quickly, disappearing from view.

Something about her reaction tugs at my memory. The way she moved, the flash of blonde hair and green eyes…

No. It couldn’t be.

After a shower and some ibuprofen, I stretch out on one of the treatment tables, icing my knee while scrolling through my phone. The team nutritionist drops off my protein shake, and I thank her with a wink that makes her blush.

“Shameless,” Donovan comments from the next table over.

I shrug. “Just being friendly.”

“Mitchell!”

I look up to find Coach standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “Your appointment is in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, sliding off the table.

The walk to the medical wing gives my knee time to stiffen up again. By the time I reach the doorway marked “Physical Therapy,” I’m masking a significant limp.

The plan is simple: flash the smile, downplay the pain, agree to whatever treatment plan they suggest, and then continue doing exactly what I’ve been doing.

I push open the door without knocking. The treatment room is empty, no sign of the new PT yet. Perfect. I can get comfortable and control the situation when they arrive.

I take a seat on the table, testing my knee’s range of motion and grimacing at the pain. When I’m alone like this, I don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt. And it hurts like a motherfucker.

I hear voices approaching outside the door. Quickly, I straighten up and plaster on my most charming smile, ready to work my magic on whoever walks through that door.

The door opens, and Peterson enters first. “Mitchell,” he says with a nod. “Good to see you actually showed up.”

“Coach made it clear I didn’t have a choice,” I reply, eyes drifting to the doorway behind him, waiting for my new torturer to appear.

“Smart man.” He gestures toward the hallway. “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?” I ask with my most innocent expression.

He snorts. “Never.” He turns toward the doorway. “Ms. Anderson? Your patient is ready. ”

And then she steps in, and my entire world tilts on its axis.

Holy shit.

Emma. My Emma . The girl who disappeared after the best night of my life. The one who blocked my number. The one I’ve thought about more times than I’d ever admit out loud.

Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Green eyes that widen fractionally when they meet mine.

She doesn’t look exactly the same as she did at the party—no smoky makeup, no sinfully tight dress—but somehow this version of her, all buttoned-up in a crisp white blouse and pencil skirt, is equally captivating.

If it weren’t for the slight tremble in her fingers and the flush creeping up her neck, I might think I’d imagined our encounter.

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

The door closes behind him, leaving us alone.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. I drink her in, noting the changes from a year ago.

Her hair is lighter, like she’s spent time in the sun.

Her posture is more rigid. But her lips are the same—full and pink and currently pressed into a tight line of displeasure.

“Well.” I can’t help myself. “Blondie. Isn’t this interesting?”

Her composure falters for just a second before she recovers. “Mr. Mitchell,” she replies. “I’m Ms. Anderson, your new physical therapist.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Oh, I remember exactly who you are, Emma.”

Something flashes in her eyes—anger, maybe. Or embarrassment. Possibly desire. Maybe all three.

“That was a long time ago,” she moves briskly to the treatment table. “This is a professional setting, and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“Always the professional,” I agree, watching as she arranges her clipboard and supplies. “Though if memory serves, you weren’t so concerned with professionalism when you had your tongue down my throat. ”

The clipboard slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor. She bends to retrieve it, and I enjoy the view until she straightens up, cheeks blazing.

“That night was a mistake,” she snaps. “One I have no intention of repeating or discussing. I’m here to treat your knee injury, nothing more.”

“So we’re just going to pretend we’ve never met before?”

“That would be the appropriate approach, yes.”

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “And what if I don’t want to pretend?”

Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see a flicker of the Emma from that night. The one who was wild and uninhibited in my arms. But then it’s gone.

“Then I’ll have to request that another therapist takes over your case,” she replies. “Your choice, Mr. Mitchell.”

She’s bluffing. I’ve been through enough physical therapists to know they don’t just hand off patients because of personal discomfort. But something in her expression tells me she’s serious about maintaining boundaries.

“Fine,” I relent. “Ms. Anderson it is. For now.”

Relief flickers across her features before she masks it. “Thank you.” She consults her clipboard. “Now, let’s discuss your injury. The file says Grade 1 MCL sprain, but you’ve been playing through it for several weeks?”

And just like that, we’re back to therapist and patient.

“So, Emma,” I murmur as she prods my knee, “how long have you been a Bears fan? ”

She shoots me a warning look. “I’m not. My brother plays for the Wolves.”

That catches me off guard. “The Wolves? Our biggest rivals? And you’re working for us?”