Page 35 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)
Chase
Chapter Twenty-One
“ R ead it again,” Emma demands, tapping the screen of my phone where the team doctor’s update sits in black and white.
“The patient’s concussion symptoms have improved. Cognitive tests show they’re ready to start light exercise in a safe, controlled setting.” I can’t keep the satisfaction from my voice. “It’s been two weeks, Blondie. I’m healing.”
“The headaches are still happening,” she points out, arms crossed in that stubborn pose I’ve come to find equally frustrating and endearing.
We’re in my kitchen as Emma prepares breakfast. Two weeks of recovery have established routines between us that feel surprisingly natural—her moving around my space with practiced ease, anticipating my needs before I voice them, the comfortable silence of two people learning each other’s rhythms.
The domesticity should feel strange. I’m Chase Mitchell, professional hockey player, notorious for avoiding commitment. Yet here I am with a woman who knows my medication schedule by heart, who has seen me at my worst and stayed anyway.
“One movie doesn’t mean you’re ready for physical exertion.” She slides scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Concussions are tricky. ”
“I’m not asking to do sprints, Emma. Just suggesting maybe a very light exercise session. Five minutes. You can monitor my heart rate, blood pressure, whatever metrics your cautious heart desires.”
She purses her lips, placing the plate in front of me with slightly more force than necessary. The smell of butter and herbs rises from the perfectly fluffy eggs. “I’ll think about it.”
Which is Emma-speak for “maybe, if you don’t annoy me in the next few hours.” I’ll take it.
The knee is another story entirely. While my brain is finally clearing, the meniscus tear has set my recovery back substantially.
Back to the single crutch, back to limited weight-bearing, back to the beginning in many ways.
The familiar weight of the crutch against my ribs serves as a constant reminder of how quickly everything can change.
“Any plans today?” I ask.
Emma leans against the counter with her coffee, steam curling up from the mug. It’s a habit she’s developed instead of sitting across from me—always alert, always ready to jump into action if needed. “Grocery run before the storm hits. Weather report says we could get up to two feet.”
Through the kitchen window, I can see the first signs of the approaching weather system. The sky has taken on that peculiar gray-white quality that promises snow, and the bare branches of the oak tree in my backyard sway with increasing urgency.
“Think they’re exaggerating?”
“Better safe than sorry.” Her practical nature emerges in these moments, the organized planner who leaves nothing to chance. “I made a list. Essentials, backup supplies if we lose power.”
The casual “we” doesn’t escape my notice.
Emma has been dividing her time between her place with Maya and here, maintaining a semblance of separate lives while essentially serving as my live-in caretaker.
The arrangement works, mostly, though I find myself increasingly restless on the nights she’s absent .
“Stay here tonight,” I suggest, aiming for casual despite the hope threading through my voice. “Storm’s supposed to hit this evening. Roads will be a mess.”
She studies me over the rim of her mug. “You trying to trap me here, Mitchell?”
“Just being practical. Wouldn’t want you driving in dangerous conditions.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but I catch the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth—a tell I’ve learned to watch for.
The reality is, I sleep better with Emma beside me.
Whether it’s some primitive instinct to protect what’s mine or simply the comfort of her warmth, having her in my bed has become the most effective remedy for the lingering effects of the concussion.
The nightmares that plagued me after games have disappeared entirely, replaced by the peaceful rest that comes from feeling complete.
Not that we’ve done anything beyond sleep. Emma’s adamant about my recovery taking priority, shutting down any attempt at escalation with firm reminders about blood pressure and healing brain tissue. It’s both frustrating and oddly touching, knowing she’s putting my health above her own desires.
Because she does desire me. I catch the way her breath hitches when I emerge from the shower, droplets still clinging to my shoulders, how her eyes linger when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
The attraction that sparked our fake relationship hasn’t diminished; if anything, it’s intensified with genuine feelings behind it.
Emma rinses her mug in the sink, movements brisk and efficient as she prepares to face the pre-storm grocery crowds. “Take my car. Better in the snow than yours.” She hesitates, then nods. “Drive safe, please.”
“Always do.” She pauses, then crosses to where I sit and drops a quick kiss on my forehead, careful to avoid the still-healing cut near my temple. The gesture is achingly tender, a reminder of how much has changed between us. “Text if you need anything specific. ”
Then she’s gone, leaving the house feeling oddly empty despite Max’s immediate appearance to wind around my legs, demanding attention now that his primary target has departed.
The storm arrives faster than predicted, fat flakes beginning to fall just as Emma’s headlights sweep across the driveway. I hobble to the door, reaching it as she struggles in with the first load of grocery bags, snowflakes melting in her blonde hair.
“Jesus, it’s coming down like crazy out there,” she says, stomping snow from her boots onto the mat I’ve placed by the entrance. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, making her eyes appear even greener than usual. “Roads are already a mess. Had to take the long way because they closed the bridge.”
I reach for a bag, only to have my hand swatted away with familiar efficiency.
“Sit down before you fall down. I’ve got this.”
I ignore her, grabbing the lightest bag anyway. The brief tug-of-war that follows is becoming our routine—Emma’s protective instincts warring with my need to feel useful.
“Think we’ll lose power?” I ask, noting the flashlights and batteries she’s added to our supplies.
“Better be prepared. The news upgraded the forecast. Winter storm warning is now a blizzard warning. We could get three feet by morning.”
Outside, the world is already transforming. The familiar landscape of my neighborhood disappears behind curtains of white, streetlights creating hazy orbs of illumination in the growing darkness. The wind has picked up, driving snow against the windows with increasing force.
“So you’re definitely staying.” I try not to sound too pleased .
Emma pauses in her organizing to fix me with a knowing look. “Was that your plan all along, Mitchell? Manufacture a reason to keep me here?”
“I don’t control the weather, Blondie.” I hold up my hands in mock innocence. “But I can’t say I’m disappointed by the outcome.”
“You’re impossible.” But her mouth curves into that reluctant smile I’ve come to treasure. “I brought some more clothes. Just in case.”
We finish putting away groceries, and I can’t help but notice how we move around each other without bumping into things. Like dancers who’ve practiced this choreography countless times, our bodies instinctively making space, anticipating each other’s movements.
“Plus,” Emma adds, closing the pantry door with a soft click, “you still need someone keeping an eye on you. Can’t have you doing something stupid and undoing all my hard work.”
“Sure, that’s the reason.” I hobble closer, unable to resist the magnetic pull that draws me to her whenever she’s near. “Nothing to do with missing me when you’re gone.”
“Your ego is truly remarkable. Perhaps we should add it to your list of symptoms.”
“You love it,” I murmur, close enough now to catch the subtle scent of her strawberry shampoo mixing with the crisp winter air still clinging to her skin.
“I tolerate it,” she corrects, but her body betrays her, leaning almost automatically toward mine.
I take advantage of the moment to brush my lips against hers, gentle, questioning. Emma responds immediately, her hands coming up to frame my face carefully. The kiss deepens slowly, neither of us rushing. We have time, after all. A whole storm-locked night stretches before us.
When we part, Emma’s pupils are dilated, her breathing slightly uneven. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“Pretty sure kissing my girlfriend constitutes ‘taking it easy,’” I counter, enjoying the way her cheeks flush at the term. “Unless you had a more strenuous activity in mind? ”
She swats my chest lightly. “Behave yourself. Your brain is still healing.”
“Parts of me are in perfect working order,” I assure her with a waggle of eyebrows that makes her groan.
“And on that note, I’m going to shower.” She disentangles herself from my arms, but not before I catch the flicker of desire in her eyes. “Try not to strain anything while I’m gone.”
I watch her disappear down the hallway, anticipation and contentment warring in my chest.
Outside, the snow continues to intensify, wind driving it against the windows in white sheets that reduce visibility to mere feet. I check the emergency supplies one final time: flashlights positioned strategically throughout the house, extra batteries, blankets stacked within easy reach.
From the bathroom, I hear Emma’s muffled voice through the door, followed by Max’s distinctive yowl of protest. The sound makes me grin—my cat has developed an unhealthy attachment to Emma, following her around like a lovesick puppy. Or lovesick cat, more accurately. The traitor.
By the time Emma emerges from the shower, hair damp and curling around her face, wearing leggings and one of my hoodies she’s appropriated, the world outside has disappeared entirely behind a curtain of white. Max is cradled in her arms like a furry baby, purring loudly.