Page 42 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Twenty-Five

I can’t breathe. My lungs feel like they’re trapped in a vise, each attempted inhale painfully catching in my chest as I stare at the impossible sight before me: a perfect rectangle of ice, glistening under warm outdoor lights like a mirror reflecting stars.

Professional-grade boards frame the surface, and a small warming hut sits at one end.

A skating rink. In Chase’s backyard.

“What did you do?” The words come out strangled, barely audible over the rushing sound in my ears.

Chase stands beside me, his weight shifting to his good leg, watching my reaction with an expression caught somewhere between hope and dread. The winter air carries the crisp scent of fresh ice, but all I can feel is the familiar clench of panic in my chest.

“I built you a safe place,” he says simply. “Somewhere you can face the ice on your terms. No pressure, no audience. Just you and me.”

My knees go weak. I grab the nearest railing for support, the wood rough beneath my suddenly clammy palms. Ten years. It’s been ten years since I’ve willingly approached ice—ten years of nightmares and panic attacks and avoidance.

Except for the two times Chase went down—when instinct bulldozed right through terror .

The contradiction hits me like a physical blow. I could run onto ice when he was hurt, driven by desperation and love, but standing here looking at this pristine surface that belongs to no one but us, my body rebels.

“You can’t just…” I struggle to find words, emotions slamming into each other too violently to form anything coherent. The rink stretches before us, beautiful and terrifying. “This is…”

“Too much?” Chase asks softly, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “If it is, we can forget about it. I just thought…”

“Why?” I cut him off, finally turning to look at him. “Why would you do this?”

His blue eyes hold mine steady, and in them I see something that makes my chest tighten for entirely different reasons—complete, unwavering belief in me.

“Because I saw what it cost you to run onto that ice for me. Because your mother told me how skating was everything to you once. Because I hear the longing in your voice when you talk about it, even when you’re trying to hide it. ”

He steps closer, still giving me space but close enough that I can feel his warmth cutting through the cold. The outdoor lights cast his face in gold and shadow, highlighting the determination in his expression.

“And because I love you, Emma. I want you to have everything—your career, your happiness, and the part of yourself you lost when you fell.”

The mention of my accident sends a shiver down my spine, memories threatening to claw their way to the surface: the crack of bone echoing through the arena, the scream torn from my throat, the sudden, brutal end of everything I’d worked for since I was a child. The taste of blood and broken dreams.

“I can’t,” I whisper, backing away from both Chase and the rink. My heart hammers against my ribs. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” There’s zero doubt in his voice, absolute conviction that somehow makes the panic less overwhelming. “You already did it for me. Let me help you do it for yourself. ”

I shake my head, the movement sharp and desperate. “That was different. You were hurt. I didn’t have time to think…”

“So don’t think now,” he suggests gently. “Just feel. Just be here with me, looking at it. We don’t even have to step on it tonight.”

The reasonableness of his suggestion somehow breaks through the initial flood of panic.

I force myself to take a full breath, then another, fighting against the invisible band crushing my chest. The cold air burns my lungs, but it’s clean and real, grounding me to this moment instead of the horrible memories trying to surface.

“You built this. For me.”

It’s not a question, but Chase nods anyway. “Had to call in some favors and pay a small fortune to get it done so quickly, but…”

“Is this what you’ve been doing? When we’ve barely seen each other this week?”

“Among other things.” He shifts his weight slightly, and I catch the grimace he tries to hide—discomfort from standing too long on his injured knee. “Come sit with me? Even if it’s just so you can tell me what an idiot I am for doing this without asking first.”

The familiar self-deprecating humor, the acknowledgment that this grand gesture might not be welcomed—it cuts through the fog of panic somehow, revealing the vulnerability beneath his confidence. This cost him, I realize. Not just money, but emotional risk.

I follow him to a small bench positioned near the rink’s edge but still on solid ground. My legs shake worse than his despite his injury, adrenaline and terror making my whole body vibrate.

We sit side by side, the rink stretching out before us like a glowing stage waiting for its star. It’s smaller than a regulation hockey rink but far more elaborate than any backyard setup I’ve ever seen.

“I had professionals build it,” he says, following my gaze. “The same company that maintains the practice facilities for half the teams in the league. The ice is tournament-grade.”

I continue staring .

“Maya also helped with some of the details,” he continues when I don’t respond. “She thought it was romantic.”

“She would,” I mutter, but my gaze keeps getting pulled back to the ice like a magnet—that familiar tug I’ve been fighting for years. It’s hypnotic, the way the lights play across the surface, creating depth and movement even in stillness.

“You don’t have to skate.” His hand finds mine. His fingers are warm despite the cold, steady despite my trembling. “We can just stay here. Talk. Look at it from a distance. Whatever you need.”

I know he means it. The pressure isn’t coming from him—it’s all internal, years of fear and longing warring inside.

“Tell me why, Chase. The real reason. Not just because you love me.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, thoughtful in a way most people never get to see beneath his playful exterior.

“When I got hurt saving Jackson, everyone kept telling me how stupid it was. How I risked my career, my season, everything. And objectively, they were right.” He looks down at our joined hands, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin.

“But I’d do it again in a heartbeat, because some things matter more than caution or logic or even careers. ”

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. This isn’t the smooth-talking hockey player the media sees, but the man underneath—complicated, thoughtful, surprisingly deep.

“The thing is, Emma, I’ve seen you watching the ice since we met. You pretend it doesn’t exist or that it doesn’t affect you, but I’ve caught that look in your eyes when you think no one’s paying attention.”

The observation hits uncomfortably close to home. There have been moments, stolen glances at the practice rink, but I thought I was being subtle.

“It’s the same way I’ve been looking at the rink during recovery,” Chase continues. “Like something precious got ripped away, something that shaped your whole identity. And yeah, you rebuilt. You found a new path, became incredible at it. But I don’t think that kind of love ever really dies. ”

His words unlock something tight and painful in my chest, a truth I’ve been running from for years. Despite the terror, despite the nightmares, despite building a whole new identity as a physical therapist, there’s always been an Emma-shaped hole where skating used to live.

“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper, the admission costing me more than I want to acknowledge.

“You don’t have to know,” he replies. “That’s the point. This is yours now. To approach or avoid, to test or ignore. However you need to handle it.”

I stare at the ice, memories flickering at the edges of my consciousness—not just the accident, but everything before it.

The pure exhilaration of landing a difficult jump.

The meditative peace of early morning practice sessions when the rink was empty except for the whisper of blades on ice.

Music flowing through my body, translating into movement that felt as natural as breathing.

“Did you get skates too?” I ask, the question surprising even me.

His expression brightens, hope flickering across his features like sunlight breaking through clouds. “In the warming hut. Your size, according to Maya. And a pair for me, for when the knee’s ready.”

“Of course you did.” I shake my head, but there’s no real irritation in it. “You thought of everything.”

“Want to look at them? No pressure to put them on.”

It’s such a small step, but even thinking about it feels huge. “Just look,” I agree, my voice barely audible.

Chase stands first, offering his hand to help me up.

I take it, grateful for the solid warmth of his fingers around mine as we approach the small wooden structure.

It’s more elaborate than a simple shed—insulated, with a small bench inside and hooks for hanging clothes.

A tiny heater hums in one corner, making the space cozy despite the winter air seeping through the cracks.

On the bench sit two boxes, pristine white with the logo of a high-end skating outfitter embossed on the side. Chase reaches for one, opening it with the reverence usually reserved for jewelry. Inside, gleaming white figure skates nestle in tissue paper.

“Maya said you used to prefer these,” he explains. “Something about the toe pick giving you more control on jumps.”

“She has a good memory.” Better than mine, apparently. I’d tried so hard to forget every detail of my former life that I’d buried the good with the bad.

The skates are beautiful—pristine leather, sharp blades that catch the light, laces still stiff with newness.

I reach out with trembling fingers, brushing the smooth surface.

The sensation is simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar, triggering muscle memories of lacing up, of that perfect snugness around my ankles, of the way the world transformed when balanced on a quarter-inch blade.

“They’re beautiful,” I manage, pulling my hand back before the memories can overwhelm me.

“Like their owner,” he says with such genuine sincerity that I can’t even roll my eyes at the cheesy line.

He replaces the lid, then takes my hand again. “Want to go closer to the ice?”

I nod. Each step feels like moving through thick water, my body fighting instincts honed by years of avoidance. But Chase’s hand in mine provides an anchor, his steady presence beside me making it possible to approach the boards without the panic completely overwhelming me.

We stop at the edge, where a small gate provides access to the ice. From here, I can see the smoothness of the surface, unmarked by blade scratches, waiting.

“The company will maintain it,” Chase says, filling the silence with practical details. “Weekly resurfacing, equipment checks. And there’s a cover system for when it snows, though we can leave it open if you want to skate in snowfall.”

The casual mention of future possibilities, of me actually using this rink, sends a tremor through me. But it’s not entirely fear this time. There’s something else mixed in, something I haven’t felt in years .

Longing.

“I’m scared,” I whisper, the words carried away by the winter wind. “Not just of falling again. Of wanting it again. Of loving it and then losing it a second time.”

His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. Through our heavy coats, I can still feel his warmth. “That’s the risk with anything worth loving,” he observes quietly. “But sometimes the joy’s worth the fear.”

I stare at the ice, memories flickering faster now—the meditation of practice, the rush of performance, the feeling of flying that came with a perfect jump.

All of it tainted by the crash that ended everything, but somehow, standing here with Chase, the good memories feel stronger than they have in years.

“I think I’ve had enough for today,” I decide finally. “But maybe… maybe I’ll be ready soon.”

The smile he gives me is worth every ounce of effort this admission cost—pure joy mixed with relief. “No rush,” he assures me. “It’ll be here whenever you’re ready. Even if that’s never. It’s still yours.”

We stay there a while longer, just breathing in the cold air. The rink waits, patient and beautiful, a bridge between who I was and who I might become again.

That night, tucked against Chase’s side in his bed, I dream not of falling for once, but of gliding across smooth ice under starlight, fear still present but no longer the only thing I feel.