Page 36 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)
“Looks like we made the right call,” she observes, joining me at the window where I’ve been watching the storm’s progress.
“Told you. My weather instincts are impeccable.”
“Your weather app, you mean.”
I lean in to kiss her temple, only to have Max hiss at me and burrow deeper into Emma’s embrace, claiming his territory.
“He officially hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just… protective.” She tries to hide her smile, scratching behind Max’s ear which make him purr even louder. “Aren’t you, baby?”
Max shoots me a smug look that clearly says ‘she’s mine. ’
Traitor.
We make dinner together—pasta with sauce from a jar, nothing fancy but comforting in its simplicity.
Emma insists I sit while she handles most of the preparation, but lets me help with seated tasks like grating cheese.
The domestic routine feels as natural as breathing, punctuated by Max’s demanding presence and the storm’s increasing intensity outside.
The first flicker of the lights comes just as we’re finishing our meal, plates cleared and stacked in the dishwasher. Emma immediately goes into preparedness mode, gathering candles and matches with efficient movements.
“Just in case,” she explains, placing them around the living room in strategic locations.
Her foresight proves prescient. Twenty minutes later, midway through a card game Emma is thoroughly trouncing me at, the house plunges into darkness. The sudden absence of the furnace’s gentle hum makes the storm’s howling seem louder, more immediate.
Max bolts from Emma’s lap like he’s been shot from a cannon, disappearing into the shadows with a startled yowl.
“Perfect timing,” I comment as Emma calmly lights the candles, their warm glow creating intimate pools of light that transform the familiar living room into something more mysterious, more romantic.
“Poor Max,” she murmurs, peering into the darkness where my traitorous cat has vanished. “He hates storms.”
“He’ll find us when he wants to. Probably still won’t come to me first though.”
The temperature begins to drop almost immediately, the house’s insulation no match for the furnace’s absence. We abandon the card game in favor of the couch, sharing a throw blanket while the candles flicker around us.
“Will the heat stay on?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer but needing the confirmation.
“No, gas furnace needs electricity to run the blower. It’s gonna get chilly.”
“Guess you’ll just have to keep me warm,” she teases, tucking herself against my side with movements that have become second nature over these weeks of recovery.
We settle into comfortable conversation, voices kept low as if the storm demands reverence. The wind continues its assault outside, occasional gusts strong enough to rattle the windows and remind us of nature’s power. But here, cocooned in candlelight and shared warmth, we’re safe.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Emma prompts when our discussion of her grocery store adventures winds down.
I consider the request, my thumb tracing circles on her shoulder through the soft fabric of my hoodie. “I wanted to be an astronaut before hockey. Had glow-in-the-dark stars all over my ceiling, knew all the constellations.”
“Really?” Emma shifts to see my face better in the flickering light, genuine surprise coloring her voice. “What changed?”
“My dad took me skating when I was five. Said if I could master it, we’d build a rocket ship together.
” The memory brings a bittersweet smile, tinged with the complicated emotions that always accompany thoughts of my father.
“But I hated it. Fell constantly, couldn’t get the hang of it.
Just wanted to go home and read my space books. ”
“Wait.” Emma’s eyebrows raise in astonishment. “You hated hockey?”
“Despised it,” I confirm with a laugh. “Dad gave up after a few sessions, frustrated with my lack of natural talent. But when I was eight, my grandfather decided to give it another shot. He was patient where my dad wasn’t, encouraging where my dad was demanding. Made it fun instead of work. ”
The memory of those early morning sessions with my grandfather fills me with warmth despite the cooling house. His weathered hands guiding mine on the stick, his gentle corrections when I fell, the way his eyes lit up when I finally managed to stay upright for a full lap.
“That explains the space books in your bedroom,” Emma muses, wonder threading through her voice. “I thought they might belong to an ex.”
“Nope, all me.” I pull her closer, savoring the way she fits perfectly against my side. “Your turn. Something I don’t know about you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, candlelight casting dancing shadows across her thoughtful face. When she speaks, her voice is soft, almost dreamy. “I was super into astronomy too as a kid.”
“Wait, what? Really?”
“Yup.” She’s laughing now, the sound bright and surprised. “If my mom hasn’t changed my childhood bedroom, you’ll see—I had star stickers all over my ceiling. I loved everything about space, wanted to visit the stars one day.”
I stare at her, amazed by this unexpected connection. “No way.”
“My mom used to tell me that my dad would read me books about the constellations as a baby. Obviously I can’t remember that, but I like to believe he’s the reason I loved them so much growing up.”
The mention of her father shifts the mood slightly, introducing a note of melancholy into our warm bubble. I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.
“It must be hard not having any memories of him.”
She shrugs, the movement small against my side. “You can’t miss what you never knew, not really. It’s more like missing the idea of him, you know? What might have been.”
“Jackson remembers him, though.”
“Yeah.” A touch of sadness colors her voice. “He has all these stories and memories I’ll never have. Sometimes I feel like I’m grieving a stranger. ”
The confession opens a floodgate. Emma talks more freely than I’ve ever heard her, sharing fragments collected over a lifetime of questions and secondhand stories.
Her father’s love of music, his terrible dad jokes that made her mother laugh despite herself, the way he proposed with a paper ring because he couldn’t afford a real one yet.
“Mom saved it,” she reveals, a soft smile playing around her lips. “Keeps it in this little glass box on her dresser. Says it means more than the diamond he got her later.”
“He sounds like a good man.”
“He was.” Emma’s hand finds mine under the blanket, fingers interlacing. “Jackson says I have his stubbornness. Mom says I have his determination. Same thing, really, just viewed differently.”
“Definitely got the stubbornness,” I tease gently, earning a light pinch to my side.
Conversation meanders after that. The candles burn lower, wax pooling at their bases while the storm continues. The house grows steadily cooler, making our shared warmth all the more precious.
“Do you miss it?” I ask carefully, knowing the ice remains a complicated subject. “Skating?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with potential landmines. But Emma surprises me, answering without the defensiveness I’ve come to expect.
“Every day,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not the competition part, not the pressure or the judging. Just the freedom. There’s nothing like it, being alone on fresh ice, the world reduced to the sound of your blades and your own heartbeat.”
Her words paint a picture I can almost see—a younger Emma gliding across pristine ice, arms outstretched, face tilted toward the arena lights like she’s reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
“You could skate again,” I suggest gently. “Not competitively, but for yourself.”
She tenses against me, then gradually relaxes as the idea settles. “Maybe. ”
It’s more openness than she’s offered before on the subject, and I recognize it as the gift it is: trust.
“When you’re ready,” I promise simply, “I’d like to be there.”
She doesn’t respond verbally, just nods against my shoulder.
The wind continues its percussion against the windows, but inside our cocoon of blankets and candlelight, time seems suspended. Emma’s breathing has grown deeper, more relaxed, and I realize she’s fighting sleep.
“We should probably check on Max,” I murmur, though I’m reluctant to disturb this perfect moment.
“He’s fine,” Emma assures me, not moving from where she’s tucked against me. “Probably sleeping on that ridiculous memory foam bed you bought him.”
“He deserves the best. Hard work being that handsome.”
“Sounds familiar,” Emma mutters, and I feel her smile against my shirt. “You two have a lot in common. Oversized, demanding attention, secretly softies.”
“Oversized?” I repeat, mock-offended. “I prefer ‘impressively proportioned.’”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“ You help me sleep at night,” I counter, the honesty slipping out before I can filter it. “Haven’t had a nightmare since you started staying over.”
She shifts to look up at me, surprise evident even in the low light. “Really?”
“Really.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture automatic now. “Used to get them after games sometimes, even before the concussion. Stress dreams about missing passes, letting down the team. They’ve stopped since you’ve been here.”
“I still get mine,” she confesses. “Less often, but they still come.”
“I know.” I’ve woken to her thrashing beside me more than once, her small cries breaking my heart. “But you let me help now. That’s progress. ”
She considers this, then nods slowly. “I guess it is.”
The conversation drifts into comfortable silence, both of us watching the dance of candlelight on the walls, listening to the storm’s symphony outside. Exhaustion tugs at me, the warmth and Emma’s presence making my eyelids heavy.
“We should sleep,” Emma says, ever attuned to my needs. “Your brain needs rest.”
“Stay here,” I suggest instead of moving toward the bedroom. “We can camp out.”
She eyes the couch dubiously. “Your knee needs elevation.”
“So bring the pillows from the bedroom. We’ll make a nest. Like teenagers during a power outage.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell the idea appeals to her. “Fine. But only because it’s more efficient to conserve body heat.”
“Of course. Very scientific approach.”
While Emma heads toward the bedrooms, I rearrange the living room furniture to create space in front of the couch, pushing the coffee table aside and angling the armchair to block any drafts. The physical activity feels good after hours of sitting, even limited as it is.
She returns with an armload of pillows and what looks like every blanket in the house, her expression softening when she sees what I’ve started. “Look at you, building a fort without being asked.”
We work together to arrange our makeshift bed, layering quilts and positioning pillows until it resembles something from a luxury camping expedition. Emma immediately sets up an elevated platform for my leg and retrieves my pain medication.
“Take these,” she orders, and I comply without arguing.
Finally settled, we press close together under the pile of blankets, Emma curling against my side with careful attention to my injured knee.
“Comfortable?” she asks, resting her head on my chest where she can hear my heartbeat.
“Perfect.” And it is, despite the pain and discomfort, despite the storm raging outside. This moment feels like a gift: Emma in my arms, safe and warm while the world beyond our windows disappears under snow and darkness.
Sleep claims Emma first, her breathing evening out against my chest, body growing heavy. I stay awake a little longer, savoring the moment, the simple rightness of holding her.
It occurs to me, in that space between wakefulness and dreams, that I’ve never felt this content with anyone before. Never welcomed the idea of building a life with someone, of creating a future beyond the next game, the next season.
“I’m going to marry you one day, Emma Anderson,” I whisper into her hair, the confession easier in the darkness, with her asleep and unable to hear my certainty. “Going to build a life so good with you that you forget there was ever a time when we were pretending.”
She doesn’t stir, but something in her expression softens even further, as if some part of her heard and welcomed the promise.
I press a gentle kiss to her forehead before finally succumbing to sleep, the storm’s distant howl a lullaby to dreams of futures yet to come.