Page 33 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Twenty

“ Y ou don’t have to carry me over the threshold, Blondie. I’m concussed, not dying.”

Chase stands in his doorway, leaning heavily on his crutches, his face a mosaic of bruises and butterfly bandages.

The morning light reveals the full extent of the damage—purple and yellow contusions blooming across his cheekbone, a particularly angry cut near his left temple held together with surgical tape.

The hospital discharged him this morning with strict instructions: limited screen time, minimal noise exposure, and someone to monitor him around the clock for any changes in symptoms.

That someone is me.

“I wasn’t planning on carrying you,” I reply, shouldering past him with his medication bag. The familiar scent of his cologne mingles with the sterile smell of antiseptic, a reminder of how close we came to losing everything. “You outweigh me by about sixty pounds of pure muscle.”

“So you’ve been noticing my muscles?” His dimple appears despite the swelling around his eye. Even battered and bruised, he can’t resist flirting.

I set his things on the kitchen counter, the prescription bottles rattling ominously as they settle. The sound echoes in the unusually quiet house—Chase’s sanctuary suddenly feeling more like a recovery ward than a home.

“You need to rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“Only if you join me.” He waggles his eyebrows, then winces when the movement pulls at his stitches. “Not like that. Just… be close. I’ve spent three days thinking about having you in my house.”

The simple honesty melts my resolve. This is Chase, concussed, injured, vulnerable, asking not for sex but for closeness. The request reveals a softness beneath his usual swagger that makes my chest tight with affection.

I slip under his shoulder, supporting his weight as we navigate to the living room. His body feels different against mine—heavier, more fragile somehow. Each step requires careful coordination, his injured knee protesting the movement despite the pain medication flowing through his system.

The couch welcomes us both with its deep cushions and familiar comfort. I arrange pillows with the precision of a nurse, propping his knee at the optimal angle for circulation while ensuring his head is supported enough to prevent any strain on his neck.

“Very nurse-like,” he teases, catching my hand as I fuss with the blanket. “I could get used to this kind of treatment.”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended, my worry bleeding through like water through cracked glass. “This isn’t a situation I want to repeat.”

Chase’s expression sobers, the playfulness draining from his features as he recognizes the depth of my concern. “Hey,” he murmurs, tugging me down to sit beside him. “I’m okay. Banged up, but okay.”

“You were unconscious. There was blood everywhere.” The images flash unbidden—Chase motionless on the ice, crimson staining the white surface. “Do you have any idea what it was like to see that?”

Before he can respond, the doorbell rings with sharp insistence. Chase grimaces, the sound clearly aggravating his concussion.

“That’ll be my parents. They texted from the airport an hour ago. ”

Of course. His parents. In the chaos of getting Chase home from the hospital, managing his discharge paperwork and coordinating with his doctors, I’d almost forgotten they were flying in from their extended European vacation.

I straighten my clothes and smooth my hair, suddenly aware of how I must look—sleep deprived mostly.

The couple on the doorstep couldn’t be more different from each other. Chase’s mother is petite and stylishly dressed, her silver hair swept into an elegant chignon. Her blue eyes—so like her son’s—immediately fill with warmth as she takes in my appearance.

His father, by contrast, is tall and broad-shouldered like Chase, but where Chase radiates easy charm, his father exudes stern disapproval. His gray eyes sweep over me with the calculating assessment of someone accustomed to sizing up threats to his family.

“You must be Emma.” Patricia pulls me into a hug before I can respond. “We can’t thank you enough for taking care of our boy.”

“Who are you to my son?” Richard remains on the doorstep, his question delivered with the bluntness of a business negotiation.

“Dad, stop interrogating my girlfriend and get in here.” Chase’s voice carries from the living room, rough with exhaustion but firm with authority.

The word ‘girlfriend’ hangs in the air. Richard’s expression darkens, while Patricia’s face lights up with delight.

Inside, Patricia immediately gravitates toward Chase, her maternal instincts overriding any social awkwardness. She gasps at the sight of his battered face, her hands fluttering over his injuries without quite touching, as if her love alone could heal him.

“Oh, Chase. Look at you. My poor baby.”

Richard takes a different approach, standing at the edge of the room with his arms crossed like a general surveying a battlefield.

“You didn’t even tell us about the first injury—all that rehab you kept quiet.

And now? You wreck it again before you’re even cleared to play? For what? A Wolves player? ”

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. The criticism hits like a physical blow, not just at Chase but at me—the implication clear that I’m somehow responsible for his poor decisions.

“Richard.” Patricia’s voice holds the warning tone of a woman accustomed to managing her husband’s moods.

“No, he needs to hear this.” Richard advances into the room. “Do you have any idea what this will do to your contract negotiations? Your season is effectively over. For what? Some misplaced sense of chivalry?”

Chase’s jaw tightens, muscles working beneath the bruised skin, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Years of dealing with his father’s criticism have taught him restraint. “Jackson Anderson is Emma’s brother. Tyler West was targeting him with a dirty hit.”

“So? That’s hockey. Players target each other all the time.”

“Not like this. It was deliberate intent to injure.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve jeopardized your entire career for someone who isn’t even on your team.” Richard’s gaze shifts to me, accusation burning in his eyes. “Because of her .”

The words hit like a slap. I feel my face flush with a mixture of anger and shame, the familiar voice in my head agreeing that yes, this is my fault, that I’ve somehow corrupted the golden boy and destroyed his future.

“That’s enough.” Chase struggles to sit up straighter, pain flickering across his features. “Emma is not responsible for my choices. I saw a dirty hit coming and reacted. End of story.”

The conversation continues, but I find myself retreating into the kitchen under the pretense of checking medication schedules. The space offers blessed relief from his dad’s disapproval.

Chase’s kitchen reflects his personality—modern and masculine, but with touches of warmth that speak to his hidden depths.

Copper pots hang from a rack above the island, and the refrigerator is covered with photos and ticket stubs from travels and achievements.

It’s the kitchen of someone who might not cook often but appreciates quality when he does .

Patricia seems to follows me, her presence immediately softening the awkward atmosphere.

“Don’t mind his dad,” she says, her voice gentle as she locates the coffee maker. “He shows concern through criticism. Always has.”

“He doesn’t sound concerned. Just really angry.”

She sighs, measuring out coffee grounds. “Richard had his own hockey career cut short by injury. Seeing Chase hurt brings back painful memories.”

The explanation doesn’t excuse his behavior, but it provides context—a glimpse into the family dynamics that shaped Chase into the man he is.

“You really care for him, don’t you?” She pauses in her coffee preparation, studying me with eyes that miss nothing. “This isn’t just some casual thing.”

The question catches me off guard with its directness. In the Mitchell family, apparently, subtlety is not a valued trait.

“I… yes. I do.”

“Good.” She nods decisively, her approval warming me more than I expected. “Chase needs someone who’ll stand up for him, even to us. Especially to his father.”

Richard appears in the kitchen before I can respond, his expression still stormy with disapproval and paternal worry.

“We’re going to the hotel. Chase needs rest, not visitors.”

“But we just got here,” Patricia protests, her disappointment clear.

“And we can come back tomorrow when he’s had time to think about his poor life choices.” He fixes me with a hard stare that could freeze water. “You’ll see to his medical needs?”

“Of course.” I meet his gaze steadily, drawing on every ounce of professional confidence I possess. “I can manage both his concussion and knee injury.”

His eyes narrow. “Is some little nurse even qualified to care for my son? This isn’t exactly some minor scrape we’re talking about. ”

Heat flashes through me, but I keep my voice level. “I’m a licensed physical therapist with a master’s degree in sports medicine.”

Something that might be respect flickers across his face before he nods curtly. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”

After they leave, the house feels different—quieter, but also more intimate. Without the external pressure of parental judgment, Chase and I can simply exist in this space together.

I return to the living room with his medication to find him slouched on the couch, eyes closed, exhaustion evident in every line of his body.

“Sorry about him,” he says without opening his eyes. “Dad’s always been…”

“A dick?” I supply.

A laugh escapes him. “I was going to say challenging, but yeah, dick works too.”

I sit beside him, offering the pills. “Your mom seems nice, though.”

“She is. Too nice, sometimes. Lets him get away with being an asshole because ‘that’s just how he shows he cares.’”