Page 43 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Twenty-Six

T hree days pass before I find myself drawn back to the rink.

Chase is casual about it, never pressuring me to approach the ice again.

He makes no mention of the skates waiting in their boxes, but I catch him watching me with a soft smile when I glance out the kitchen window and stare at the pristine surface that both calls to me and terrifies me in equal measure.

It’s late afternoon when I finally step outside, alone while Chase naps on the couch.

His recovery routine still requires more rest than his active nature can tolerate, leaving me with the silence I need to face this next step.

The winter air is crisp but not bitter, the sky clear and brightening toward sunset, painting everything in shades of gold and rose.

I approach the rink slowly, each step deliberate as I fight the instinct to turn back.

The rational part of my brain catalogues the safety measures—the professional installation, the perfect ice conditions, the complete privacy.

But my body remembers only trauma, muscles tensing with each inch closer to the surface that ended everything I’d worked for.

The warming hut door creaks slightly as I push it open. The skate boxes sit untouched on the bench. I reach for mine, running my fingers over the embossed logo before lifting the lid with hands that tremble despite my determination.

The skates look back at me, pristine and hopeful.

I don’t put them on. Not yet. But I take them from their tissue paper nest, feeling their familiar weight, remembering what it was like to move in them, to trust them as extensions of my own body.

My fingers find the laces automatically, muscle memory undiminished even after years of deliberate forgetting.

“Hey.”

I startle at the soft voice, turning to find Chase standing in the doorway, his hair rumpled from sleep and concern etched in the lines around his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say, hastily returning the skates to their box like I’ve been caught stealing.

“You didn’t.” He steps inside, the small space shrinking with his presence. “Just wanted to check on you.”

The lack of expectation in his voice, the way he avoids looking at the skates or the ice beyond—it loosens something tight in my chest. He’s giving me space to want this for myself, not performing it for him.

“I was thinking about trying,” I admit, the words feeling huge as they leave my lips. “Not skating, exactly. Just standing on it. Maybe.”

Chase’s expression brightens like sunrise, though he quickly tempers it to something more neutral. “Want company?”

“Yes.” The answer comes immediately, surprising me with its certainty. “But your knee…”

“Is strong enough to stand on solid ground.”

We exit the hut together, approaching the gate that leads onto the ice. I’m still in slippers, not yet ready for the commitment of skates, but even this—standing at the very threshold—feels like scaling Everest in flip-flops.

Chase opens the gate and steps carefully onto the ice in his sneakers. He’s unsteady without skates, especially with his knee, but he takes a few careful steps before turning back to me, hand extended .

“Sturdy,” he reports with a smile. “Custom-built for a stubborn physical therapist with impossibly high standards.”

Despite my nerves, I find myself smiling. “Those impossible standards keep you from reinjuring that knee, Mitchell.”

He’s still holding out his hand, patient and steady, not reaching for me but waiting for me to reach for him. The choice is entirely mine, and somehow that makes all the difference.

I take a deep breath, then another. “If I freak out…”

“I’ve got you. Always .”

It’s that simple assurance that finally propels me forward. I reach for his hand, gripping it perhaps too tightly as I place one foot tentatively on the ice. The surface is exactly as treacherous as I remember—slick and unforgiving—but it holds my weight without complaint.

The world doesn’t end. The ice doesn’t crack beneath me. My breath catches, but more from the flood of conflicting emotions than from panic.

“That’s it,” he encourages quietly. “Just one foot. No rush.”

I test my weight, feeling the familiar lack of traction that once felt as natural as walking. My heart hammers against my ribs, but it’s bearable. Barely.

Chase’s free hand rests lightly at my waist for additional support as I bring my other foot onto the ice. Now I’m fully standing on the surface that has haunted my nightmares for as long as I can remember.

And then it hits me—a tidal wave of memories and sensations so powerful I sway on my feet. Chase steadies me immediately, his grip firm but gentle, anchoring me as emotions crash through my carefully constructed defenses.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, pulling me against his chest as the first sob tears free. “I’ve got you. Let it out.”

And I do, clinging to him as years of suppressed grief and loss pour out of me in heaving sobs. I cry for the dreams that died with my accident, for the competitor I never got to become, for the pure joy that got stolen from me in one terrible moment of miscalculation .

He holds me through it all, his arms a safe harbor in the storm, his voice a constant reassurance in my ear. I don’t know how long we stand there—me sobbing while he keeps us both steady on the ice—but gradually the storm begins to subside.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, pulling back to wipe away the tears with shaking hands. “That was really intense.”

“Don’t apologize.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face with infinite tenderness. “That’s what healing looks like sometimes.”

“Standing on ice and sobbing like a child?”

“Facing what hurts you and allowing yourself to feel it,” he corrects gently. “You’re the strongest person I know, Emma. Even now. Especially now.”

I look around the rink, seeing it with new eyes now that the initial panic has subsided. The late afternoon sun slants across the surface, transforming it from stark white to warm amber, beautiful and inviting rather than threatening.

“We’re on the ice,” I observe unnecessarily.

“We are,” he confirms, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “How does it feel?”

I consider the question seriously. “Scary,” I admit. “But also familiar. Like meeting an old friend who hurt me, but realizing I still remember why we were friends in the first place.”

His smile widens. “That’s a good start. Do you want to take a few steps? Just in your slippers? I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”

The offer tempts me more than I expected, but I shake my head. “Not today. This is enough for now.”

“Okay.” He accepts my decision without question. “Want to get off?”

I hesitate, then shake my head again. “Can we just stand here a little longer? Now that I’m not crying all over you?”

“As long as you want, Blondie.”

We remain on the ice as the sun sinks lower, and I find myself remembering not just the fear and pain, but everything I loved about skating. The memories come in waves now, no longer dammed up by terror .

“I miss it so much,” I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Not just skating, but the feeling it gave me. Like I could fly.”

Chase listens, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of my hand, encouraging without pressing.

“There was this moment,” I continue, the memory so vivid I can almost feel it again, “right at the peak of a jump, when you’re completely airborne. For just a second, you’re weightless. Untouchable. Like you’ve broken free from every law of physics.”

I close my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. “And the speed—god, the speed. When you really get going, the whole world blurs into streaks of color. Nothing exists except you and the ice and the music flowing through your body.”

“It sounds incredible,” Chase murmurs.

“It was everything,” I whisper. “The early morning practices when the rink was empty and silent except for the whisper of blades on ice. The way a perfect spiral felt like dancing with the wind. How landing a clean triple felt like conquering the universe.”

The longing in my voice surprises even me. After years of pushing these feelings down, denying them, it’s overwhelming to let them surface.

“I used to choreograph routines in my head everywhere I went,” I admit with a watery laugh.

“Walking to school, sitting in math class. I’d hear a song and immediately start planning jumps and spins to match the music.

My body would twitch sometimes, trying to perform moves while I was supposed to be learning algebra. ”

“You still do that,” Chase says softly. “I’ve watched you unconsciously move to music when you think no one’s looking. Your body remembers.”

The observation catches me off guard. I hadn’t realized I was still doing that, hadn’t noticed my body betraying the loss I thought I’d learned to live with.

“I dreamed about the Olympics,” I continue, the confession feeling both painful and liberating. “Had it all planned out—the program, the costume, even what I’d say in interviews after winning gold. Such a ridiculous teenage fantasy, but it felt so real, so possible.”

“Maybe you could figure skate again one day.”

The idea hangs between us like a bridge I’m not sure I’m ready to cross. But for the first time in years, it doesn’t feel completely impossible.

“I think that’s enough soul-baring for one day,” I say, though I make no move to leave his arms or the ice.

“This is already more than I hoped for,” he assures me. “You’re incredible, Emma. For facing this, for letting yourself feel it again.”

The emotion between us shifts, deepens, becomes something beyond words. I lean forward and press my lips to his, the kiss gentle at first—a physical expression of gratitude. But it quickly transforms into something more urgent as if the emotional barriers I’ve lowered take physical ones with them.

Chase responds immediately, his free hand cradling the back of my head as the kiss deepens. We’re still on the ice, the irony not lost on me. The place I fear most is now the backdrop to this raw and real moment.

“I love you,” I whisper against his lips when we finally break apart. “Not just for this, but god, Chase. Especially for this.”

“I love you too,” he replies, resting his forehead against mine. “Every version of you—the professional PT, the grumpy morning person, the woman afraid of ice, and the woman facing that fear right now.”

“I’m not grumpy in the mornings.”

“Blondie, you threatened to stab me with a fork yesterday when I talked to you before coffee.”

“That was an extreme circumstance.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest, warm and fond. We stand there grinning at each other like idiots until Chase winces slightly, his weight shifting unconsciously.

“Your knee,” I realize, immediately shifting into PT mode. “We should get you off the ice. You’ve been standing too long.”

“Worth it,” he insists, though he doesn’t resist as I guide him back toward the gate. “Every second was worth it. ”

We make our way back to solid ground, the transition strangely anticlimactic after such an emotional breakthrough. But as we head inside, I can’t help looking back one more time.

The rink sits quiet and patient in the gathering dusk, no longer the unconquerable monster of my nightmares. Just ice. Beautiful, dangerous, beloved ice. Waiting for me to be ready to truly come home to it.

And for the first time since my accident, I believe that day might actually come.