Page 31 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Nineteen

P ain splits my head in two before I even open my eyes.

Beeping machines. Antiseptic smell. The rough scratch of hospital sheets.

Fuck.

Memories filter back in jagged fragments: the game, Tyler positioning for a hit, Jackson being vulnerable. Then nothing but a flash of movement, impact, and darkness.

I try to lift my hand to my face but find it weighed down by something warm.

When I force my eyes open, blinking against the stabbing fluorescent light, I see her.

Emma, folded awkwardly in a vinyl hospital chair, her blonde hair spilling across the edge of my bed where she’s fallen asleep holding my hand.

She looks exhausted, dark circles shadowing her eyes, her clothes wrinkled like she’s been wearing them for days. Still beautiful.

How long have I been here?

I try to shift and immediately regret it as pain explodes through my skull. A groan escapes before I can stop it, and Emma jolts awake, her green eyes flying open and locking on mine .

“Chase?” Her voice is rough with sleep, but relief floods her face. “You’re awake.”

“Seems that way.” Even those few words send splinters of pain through my temple. “How bad?”

Emma straightens, professional instincts kicking in despite the exhaustion in every line of her body. “Severe concussion. Fracture to your zygomatic arch—your cheekbone. Eight stitches near your temple. And your knee…”

She trails off, and something in her expression makes my stomach drop.

“Tell me.”

“You tore your meniscus. Significantly. You undid most of the healing from the last six weeks.”

“Shit.” I close my eyes, trying to process. “The season?”

“Let’s focus on the concussion first.”

Which means it’s bad. Really bad.

“What day is it?” The gaps in my memory are unsettling.

“Saturday. The game was Thursday night. You’ve been in and out of consciousness since then, but this is the first time you’ve been fully lucid.”

Two days. I’ve lost two fucking days.

“Tyler,” I say, fragments clicking into place. “He was lining up Jackson for a blindside hit.”

Her expression shifts, something vulnerable breaking through her composure. “Yes. You saw it before anyone else did. You went over the boards.”

The memory flashes bright: the split-second recognition of Tyler’s intent, the rage that flooded me at the thought of Emma watching her brother get hurt.

“Did I stop him?”

“You knocked him flat.” A small smile touches her lips. “Probably saved Jackson from a serious injury.”

“Good. Worth it, then. ”

“No, it was not worth it.” The professional mask slips entirely as she leans forward, eyes blazing. “You might have a brain injury, Chase. You could have…” Her voice cracks. “You weren’t even wearing a helmet.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to go on the ice,” I point out, then immediately regret the defensive tone when I see tears gathering in her eyes. “Emma…”

“I thought you were dying.” The words come out in a whisper. “There was so much blood, and you weren’t moving, and all I could think was that I never told you…”

She stops abruptly, looking away.

“Told me what?” I reach for her hand, ignoring the IV tugging at my skin.

Before she can answer, the door swings open and a doctor enters, followed by a nurse. Emma immediately pulls back.

“Mr. Mitchell, good to see you awake.” The doctor—a petite woman with kind dark eyes and graying hair pulled back in a neat bun—approaches with a tablet in hand. “I’m Dr. Patel. How’s the head feeling?”

“Like someone tried to split it with an axe.”

“That’s to be expected.” She taps something on her tablet. “I’m going to ask you a few questions to assess your cognitive function.”

I submit to the examination—following her finger with my eyes, reciting the date, squeezing her hands to test my strength. Standard concussion protocol I’ve been through before, though never this severe.

“Your CT scan showed no brain bleeding, which is the good news,” she explains. “The bad news is this is a significant concussion that will require careful recovery. No screens, no reading, no physical exertion for at least a week.”

“And hockey?”

Her expression confirms what I already know. “You’re looking at a minimum of six to eight weeks before we’d even consider clearing you for light skating. And that’s assuming no complications.”

Six to eight weeks. Combined with the meniscus tear, that’s…

“The season,” I state flatly. “I’ve lost the season. ”

“It’s too early to make that assumption,” she replies. “But I would prepare yourself for significant recovery time.”

Emma watches me carefully, gauging my reaction. But what is there to say? The reality is sinking in with brutal clarity. I’ve fucked myself. One impulsive moment, one protective instinct, and my season could be over.

Dr. Patel continues with instructions for care, medication schedules, follow-up appointments. I nod in all the right places, though the information blurs together through the fog of pain and disappointment.

“We’d like to keep you another night for observation. If all goes well, you can be discharged tomorrow with someone to monitor you.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Emma volunteers immediately, then flushes when both the doctor and I look at her. “I mean, I have medical training, so I’m qualified to monitor his symptoms.”

Dr. Patel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “That would be acceptable. I’ll be back to check on you this evening, Mr. Mitchell.”

After she leaves, silence falls between us.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” I finally say, though the thought of Emma caring for me sends warmth through my chest. “I can hire a nurse.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She fusses with my blanket, not meeting my eyes. “You need someone who understands both the concussion and your knee rehabilitation.”

“And that has nothing to do with personal feelings?”

Her hands still. “I didn’t say that.”

Before I can press further, the door opens again, this time revealing Donovan, arms full of what looks like half the gift shop.

“There he is!” My captain grins, though I can see concern beneath it. “The crazy bastard himself.”

“Watch the language, Donovan,” Emma scolds. “His brain is bruised.”

“Pretty sure Mitchell’s vocabulary was ninety percent profanity even before he cracked his skull.” Donovan dumps the gifts on the bedside table: balloons, a stuffed bear wearing a tiny Bears jersey, magazines, and several bags of contraband candy. “From the team. Everyone sends their best.”

“How bad was it?” I ask. “After I went down?”

Donovan exchanges a glance with Emma. “Game was delayed about twenty minutes while they got you off the ice and cleaned up the, uh…” He gestures vaguely toward my head.

“Blood. You can say it.”

“There was a lot of it.” Something dark passes across his face. “Thought you were dead for a minute there, man. We all did.”

I remember nothing after the impact.

“What happened with the game?”

“We won.” A grim smile touches Donovan’s mouth. “Tyler got ejected. Five-minute major plus a game misconduct for targeting. League’s reviewing it for a suspension.”

“Good,” I spit, then wince at fresh pain shooting through my head.

“Easy,” Emma murmurs, her cool hand coming to rest on my forearm. “Blood pressure.”

Donovan watches the exchange with interest. “You’ve had quite the fan club in the waiting room. Coach, management, half the team. Your parents are flying in tomorrow.”

“You called my parents?” Panic spikes through me. “They’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“Almost dying trumps a European river cruise, Mitchell.” Donovan shrugs. “Besides, your mom would’ve murdered me if I didn’t tell her.”

He’s right, but the thought of my mother seeing me like this, broken, bloodied, my career potentially derailed, makes my stomach clench.

“Oh, and get this.” Donovan leans forward, voice dropping. “Jackson Anderson came by yesterday. Captain of the Wolves, checking on a Bear. Nearly caused a riot in the waiting room.”

I glance at Emma, whose cheeks color slightly. “Did he now?”

“He said he wanted to thank you personally. Something about saving him from a dirty hit? ”

“Tyler was targeting him.” The memory flashes again—the angle of West’s approach, Jackson’s vulnerability with his head turned. “Blindside hit to the head. Would’ve been ugly.”

Emma makes a small sound, and when I look at her, the gratitude in her eyes steals my breath.

“Well, you’re the talk of both locker rooms,” Donovan reports. “Bears think you’re a hero. Wolves can’t decide if they should hate you less or more.”

“I wasn’t thinking about jerseys.” I reach for Emma’s hand without thinking, interlacing our fingers. “Just didn’t want him hurt.”

Donovan’s gaze drops to our joined hands. “Right. Well, I should get going. Practice in an hour.” He backs toward the door. “Glad you’re not dead, Mitchell. Try to stay that way.”

After he leaves, silence settles between us again, but it’s different now. Intimate rather than awkward.

“Your brother really came to see me?” I ask.

Emma nods, her thumb absently stroking the back of my hand. “Yesterday morning. You were still pretty out of it, but he wanted to be here anyway.”

“Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

“You saved him from a potentially career-ending hit. Even Jackson can put aside rivalry for that.”

A memory surfaces, hazy and dreamlike.

Emma’s voice whispering in my ear as I was being loaded into an ambulance. “I love you, you reckless idiot. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

Had that been real? Or just my concussed brain conjuring what I wanted to hear?

“You ran onto the ice,” I say, the realization striking me suddenly. “After I went down. You were there.”

Her face pales slightly. “Yes.”

“But you’re terrified of the ice. Your PTSD…”

“Didn’t matter.” She cuts me off, finally meeting my eyes. “Not when you were hurt. Not when you were bleeding. ”

The admission hits me harder than colliding with Tyler did. I know what it means, what it must have cost her to overcome that paralyzing fear, to force herself onto the very surface that shattered her dreams.