Page 40 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Twenty-Four

T he drive back from Calgary to Pinewood feels twice as long as the journey out, despite roads finally cleared of snow and sunshine replacing blizzard conditions.

Emma and I don’t talk much, both of us lost in our own thoughts after the visit with her mother.

Something shifted between us at her childhood home, something I can’t quite name but can feel settling into place like a puzzle piece I didn’t know was missing.

“You’re quiet,” Emma observes as we pass the Pinewood city limits sign.

“Just thinking,” I reply, watching her profile. “Your mom is something else.”

A smile touches her lips. “She liked you. A lot.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” And it’s true. Diane Anderson is a force of nature—warm, sharp-witted, with the same backbone of steel I recognize in her daughter.

As we pull into my driveway, my phone buzzes with a message from Donovan reminding me about tomorrow’s team meeting. Management wants to discuss my recovery timeline.

“Thanks for driving,” I say as Emma puts the car in park .

“Like I’d let you behind the wheel with a concussion and a bum knee,” she scoffs.

I reach across the console to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against the softness of her cheek. “Stay tonight? I’ve gotten used to having you around.”

Emma hesitates, and I can see the internal battle play out on her face. “I can’t. Early patient tomorrow, and I need to catch up on all the appointments I missed during the storm.”

Disappointment settles in my chest, but I nod. “Rain check?”

“Definitely.” She leans across to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Talk to you later?”

Emma helps bring my bag inside before departing with a final kiss that lingers just long enough to make me consider pulling her into the house and convincing her to stay. But I restrain myself, watching her drive away.

Once she’s gone, I pull out my phone and make the call I’ve been planning since I spoke to Maya weeks ago.

“Is this Bradford Custom Ice?” I ask when someone answers. “I want to discuss a private rink installation. Something small, residential. And I need it done quickly.”

The Bears management office hasn’t changed since I signed my contract—same imposing mahogany desk, same team photos lining the walls. What has changed is my position within the organization. Now I’m the star forward whose injury has cost the team momentum early in the season.

GM Phillip Harrison gestures for me to take a seat across from him, his expression unreadable. Coach Barrett stands nearby, arms crossed. Mr. Peterson sits to my left, medical chart open on his lap .

“Mitchell,” Harrison begins. “How’s the knee?”

“Improving,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “Ask the doc.”

All eyes turn to Peterson, who clears his throat. “Chase has shown remarkable progress. The concussion symptoms have largely resolved. The meniscus tear is healing well, though not as quickly as we’d hoped.”

“Bottom line,” Coach Barrett cuts in. “When can he skate?”

“Light skating could begin next week,” Peterson explains cautiously. “Non-contact only. Full practice is still at least three weeks away.”

“Games?” Harrison asks.

“Minimum six weeks from now. Possibly eight, depending on progress.”

Six to eight weeks. March, at the earliest. The season will be three-quarters over before I can contribute again.

“That timeline works for us,” Harrison acknowledges, surprising me. “Next season is the priority at this point.”

“Next season?” I repeat, not bothering to hide my displeasure. “We’re barely out of December.”

Coach sighs, exchanging a look with Harrison. “Our playoff chances took a hit with your injury and West’s suspension. We’re realistic about this season’s prospects.”

“West is being traded to Winnipeg after his suspension, by the way,” Harrison adds. “Deal’s done, just waiting on his suspension to finish. Of course, that’s if he and his lawyer don’t fight it, which they probably will.”

The possibility that Tyler might actually leave should feel like a victory, but all I can think about is how management has basically given up on this season.

“So what exactly am I rehabbing for?” I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

“For your career, Mitchell,” Harrison says firmly. “Which we expect to be long and productive with this organization, assuming you don’t pull any more heroics without a helmet. ”

The rebuke is gentle but clear. I’ve been reckless, and they’re concerned.

“The publicity from the incident was great,” Harrison continues. “Saving your girlfriend’s brother made for great PR. But from a business perspective, we’re investing in your future, not just this season.”

I should be grateful they’re taking the long view rather than rushing me back. Instead, I feel sidelined. Again.

“We’re still aiming for a March return,” Coach Barrett adds. “Just with modified expectations. No need to push beyond medical recommendations.”

“I understand,” I say, though frustration still burns beneath the surface. “What do you need from me in the meantime?”

“Focus on your recovery,” Harrison instructs. “Maintain team presence when possible. And…” he hesitates, glancing at Peterson.

“And?” I prompt.

“And exercise appropriate discretion regarding your personal relationships,” he finishes delicately. “Particularly those with medical staff.”

Ah. So that’s part of this meeting too. I guess Emma and I aren’t flying under the radar anymore.

“Ms. Anderson has taken a step back from your treatment,” Peterson mentions. “She’s transferred your care to Mr. Richards for the remainder of your recovery. The decision was hers.”

This news hits me harder than the talk of next season. Emma has removed herself from my treatment entirely? When did she decide this? Why didn’t she tell me herself?

“This arrangement will protect both your recovery trajectory and Ms. Anderson’s professional standing,” Harrison explains. “We have no issue with your personal relationship, Mitchell. We just don’t want anything that could be misinterpreted.”

I want to argue, but the truth is, she’s the one who made this call. And I respect her enough to accept her decision, even if it stings.

“Understood,” I respond finally. “Is that all? ”

“That’s all,” Harrison confirms, standing to signal the end of the meeting. “Keep up the good work with your rehab. We’re looking forward to having you back at full strength.”

As I turn to leave, Peterson follows me into the hallway.

“This wasn’t my idea,” he begins. “Emma came to me yesterday after you returned from Calgary. She felt the lines were becoming too blurred between her professional responsibilities and personal feelings.”

“Did something happen? We were fine when we left her mom’s place.”

He removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nothing happened, per se. She simply recognized a conflict she could no longer reconcile professionally.”

Translation: Emma freaked out about how serious things are getting between us.

“I respect her decision,” I say, meaning it despite my disappointment.

I leave the facility with mixed emotions, but also a strengthened resolve to move forward with my surprise. If Emma is pulling back to protect both our futures, the least I can do is finish the project that might help her reclaim a part of herself she lost years ago.

“It’s going to cost extra for the accelerated timeline,” Brad from Bradford Custom Ice explains as we walk through my backyard. “We normally schedule these installations months in advance.”

“Money isn’t an issue,” I reply, watching as he marks dimensions in the snow. “What’s your fastest possible turnaround?”

Brad scratches his beard, considering. “With enough crew and assuming the weather holds… ten days, minimum. That’s for the basic structure, piping, boards, refrigeration unit. ”

“I need it in seven,” I tell him, knowing I’m asking the impossible. “Complete and operational.”

He whistles low. “That’s asking a lot, Mr. Mitchell.”

“I know.” I pull out the check I’ve already written, with enough zeros to make his eyes widen. “This is half. Same amount upon completion within seven days.”

He stares at the check, then at me. “Mind if I ask why the rush?”

I consider deflecting, but opt for honesty. “It’s for someone special. Someone who lost skating years ago and might find it again with the right environment.”

Something in my voice must convey the importance, because his skepticism transforms into determination. “Seven days,” he agrees. “We’ll need to work around the clock, bring in extra crew.”

“Whatever it takes,” I agree. “And I need absolute discretion. This is a surprise.”

We spend the next hour finalizing details—dimensions, board height, the refrigeration system, lighting that will make the space usable day or night. I opt for professional-grade components wherever possible, wanting this to be as close to a real rink as space allows.

By day five, the rink’s structure is taking shape in my backyard, boards erected, refrigeration system installed. The crew works around the clock as promised, transforming my property with remarkable efficiency.

I’ve seen Emma exactly once during this period, a brief, awkward encounter at the Bears facility when our schedules unexpectedly overlapped. She was leaving as I arrived for a meeting with management, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as we exchanged polite greetings in the hallway.

“How’s Richards working out?” she asks, clutching her files like a shield.

“Fine,” I lie, not wanting to make her feel guilty. “How are you?”

“Busy,” she replies, glancing at her watch. “I should go. I have a patient waiting. ”

And that’s it. All the weeks of intimacy reduced to a thirty-second exchange in a corridor.