Page 46 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T he athletic tape feels different in my hands today. I’ve wrapped countless ankles, wrists, and shoulders over the years, but something has changed.

“Too tight?” I ask Roberts, the Bears’ third-line center whose ankle I’m currently taping.

He flexes his foot. “Perfect, actually. Better than usual.”

This is what I’ve been missing. The easy rapport with players who aren’t just patients but people I genuinely care about. Before Chase, before our complicated relationship muddied the waters, this was what drew me to sports medicine.

“Speaking of idiots,” Roberts says, nodding toward the doorway, “yours is hovering.”

I glance up to see Chase leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me work. He’s freshly showered after his solo morning skate, his damp hair curling slightly at the temples.

“You almost done torturing my teammates?” he asks.

“Roberts isn’t being tortured. He’s being cared for, which is what happens when players actually follow medical advice.” I give him a pointed look .

After Roberts leaves, Chase circles behind the treatment table, his hands settling lightly on my hips. “Lunch?”

“Can’t. Full schedule this afternoon.” I turn in his arms. “Chase, we’re at work.”

“And?” His brows rise innocently.

“And we agreed to maintain professional boundaries here.”

With obvious reluctance, he steps back. It’s been three weeks since Chase’s return to play, three weeks of navigating this new reality where I’m both a team therapist and the girlfriend of the star forward.

We’ve established rules: no physical contact at the facility, no discussions about our relationship around other staff or players, no special treatment of any kind.

“Rain check on lunch?” he asks.

“Maybe. Don’t you have practice in ten minutes for the game tomorrow?”

“Coach’s wife had a baby last night. So we’re free.” His smile turns mischievous. “Which means I’m free until the team meeting at three…”

“And I have patients all afternoon,” I state firmly.

“Fine. I guess I’ll just go work on the surprise I’ve been planning instead.”

That catches my attention. “What surprise?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He drops a quick kiss on my forehead. “See you later.”

The arena is packed the next evening, the crowd buzzing with energy as Maya and I make our way to our seats.

“There they are.” Maya points out. I look ahead and spot my mother and Jackson .

“Surprise!” she exclaims, enveloping me in a hug that smells like her lavender perfume.

“What are you guys doing here?”

Jackson shrugs, looking uncomfortable in his button-down shirt. “Mom called, said she wanted to see a game.”

We settle into our seats as the lights dim for player introductions. The crowd roars as the Bears skate onto the ice.

“Number nine, Chase Mitchell!”

The arena erupts, and Chase circles the ice with his trademark confidence. His eyes sweep the crowd, finding me exactly where I always sit. He taps his chest twice—our signal—and then spots Jackson. His body goes rigid, then relaxes as my brother gives a small nod.

The game starts fast. Chase plays like a man possessed, his movements fluid and powerful, no hint of his former injury.

By the third period, the Bears are up 3-2. During a pause in play, the jumbotron switches to the “Kiss Cam,” panning across the audience. The crowd cheers as couple after couple obliges with kisses.

Then the camera finds us. Maya and me, right there on the massive screen.

“Oh no,” I groan as Maya cackles.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the crowd chants.

She plants a theatrical kiss on my cheek, and I laugh, hoping that will satisfy them. But the frame stays on us, and then I see movement on the ice. Chase has spotted us on the screen and is skating rapidly toward the boards, shedding his gloves.

“What is he doing?” I hiss to Maya, who is filming everything on her phone.

“Something stupid and romantic,” she replies.

The crowd realizes what’s happening and erupts as Chase vaults over the boards and begins climbing over seats to reach our row. People are standing, cheering, phones raised.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, equal parts mortified and thrilled .

He reaches our row, ignoring the officials shouting from the ice. “Excuse me,” he says to two teenage girls who scramble aside, staring open-mouthed.

Suddenly he’s right in front of me, removing his helmet. His hair is damp with sweat, his blue eyes dancing with mischief.

“You’re going to get benched,” I warn, unable to stop smiling.

“Worth it.” Then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is brief but fierce, a public claiming that sends heat coursing through me. The crowd goes wild, the cheers vibrating in my chest.

When he pulls back, he’s grinning. “For luck,” he says, echoing my words from weeks before.

He makes his way back to the ice, where an official waits with the penalty box door open.

“Five minute major for leaving the bench. Number nine, Chase Mitchell.”

As he enters the box, he looks directly at me and mouths: “Still worth it.”

Beside me, Maya is practically screaming. “That’s going viral in about three seconds. Holy shit, Emma.”

My mother pats my hand, amused. “He’s quite the showman.”

Even Jackson seems reluctantly impressed. “Reckless and stupid, but smooth.”

Mr. Peterson keeps his expression blank as he sits across from me in his office the next morning.

“I assume you know why I asked to see you.”

“The Kiss Cam incident,” I reply, anxiety fluttering in my stomach .

“Emma, I know we agreed that your relationship with Mitchell wouldn’t be an issue as long as you maintained professional boundaries. But what happened last night…”

“Was completely outside my control. I had no idea he was going to do that.”

He studies me. “I believe you. And I’m not blaming you for Mitchell’s actions. But the optics are becoming complicated.”

“Optics?”

“The Bears organization has received dozens of media requests this morning. The video has over two million views already. It raises questions about our professional standards.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach. “Are you saying my job is at risk?”

“No. You’ve done nothing wrong professionally. But I need you aware of the situation. From now on, I would appreciate it if you and Mitchell could keep public displays to a minimum, especially during games.”

I nod stiffly. “Of course. I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you. And Emma? For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you both. Just be careful.”

By the time I reach Chase’s house that evening, tension has built to a full-blown headache. I let myself in and head for the back door that leads to the rink.

I find Chase alone on the ice, practicing drills, weaving between cones at high speed. He notices me and his serious expression breaks into a brilliant smile.

“Hey. Was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Had a lot of patients,” I say, which isn’t the whole truth.

Chase stops at the boards, breathing hard. “Everything okay? You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re thinking too much.” He leans over to kiss me, but I turn my head so his lips land on my cheek.

His eyes narrow. “Definitely something wrong.”

I sigh. “Mr. Peterson called me into his office this morning. ”

“Ah. About last night?”

“About the ‘optics’ of our relationship. And how the front office is concerned we’re becoming a ‘distraction.’”

His jaw tightens. “That’s bullshit. We’re on a four-game winning streak.”

“The video went viral, Chase. Two million views.”

Chase chuckles. “Epic—”

“It’s different for me, okay? It’s not epic. I’m medical staff. I’m held to different standards.”

He blows out a breath, his expression softening. “I get it. I’m sorry if I made things harder. I just saw you on that screen and… I wanted to kiss you.”

My anger dissolves. How can I stay mad at someone whose biggest crime is wanting to kiss me in front of thousands of people?

“It was a pretty great kiss,” I admit.

“Worth every minute in the penalty box,” he agrees.

I shake my head. “We need to be more careful, though.”

He reaches across the boards to take my hand. “I’d never let anything happen to your job. I promise.”

I force a weak smile, though my chest is still tight.

“Hey,” Chase says softly. “Come skate with me. It’ll clear your head.”

I glance down at my work clothes.

“I have some new gear for you. Part of the surprise I’ve been working on.”

My curiosity piqued, I follow him to the warming hut. Inside, he opens a wooden chest, pulling out a black case.

“What’s this?”

“Open it,” he prompts, eyes bright with anticipation.

I lift the lid to find professional-grade figure skating blades nested in protective foam. Not just any blades, but the exact model I used to compete with.

“Chase,” I breathe, lifting one reverently. “These are…”

“Maya mentioned the blades you had in competitions were special. I thought maybe having the right equipment might help you feel more confident trying some of the harder elements again.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. The fact that he remembered such a detail, went to the trouble of finding exactly the right blades, makes my chest ache.

“I love them. I just… I can’t believe you did this.”

“I’ve seen how you watch the ice now, Emma. There’s longing there, not just fear.”

He’s right. “I’ve been thinking about trying a jump. Nothing major. Just a single axel, maybe.”

Chase’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s huge.”

“It’s terrifying,” I correct, but I’m smiling. “But I think I’m ready.”

He pulls out black leggings and a thermal top. “Can’t have you getting cold.”

I change quickly while he waits outside. When I step onto the ice, the new blades attached to my boots, something clicks into place. The familiar balance point, my body recognizing the tools it once mastered.

“How do they feel?” Chase asks, staying close as I take experimental strokes.

“Heavy,” I admit. The skates that used to feel like extensions of my feet now feel clunky, foreign. “Like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes.”

We move slowly around the rink. My ankles wobble with each push, muscles that once held me steady now uncertain and weak. I grip the boards twice in the first lap, embarrassed but grateful Chase doesn’t comment.

“Take your time,” he says when I pause to catch my breath. “There’s no rush.”

After what feels like forever, I manage a few strokes without touching the wall. My form is terrible—arms flailing slightly for balance, shoulders too tense—but I’m moving.

“You want to try gliding?” Chase suggests. “Just push off and let yourself coast. ”

The thought terrifies me. Gliding means giving up control, trusting my body to stay upright without constant correction. But I nod anyway.

I push off gently and immediately panic as my speed picks up. My chest tightens, breath coming short. I reach for the wall, but Chase’s voice cuts through the fear.

“You’ve got it. Just breathe.”

I manage maybe ten feet before I grab the boards, heart hammering. “Sorry, I—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. “That was good. Really good.”

We spend more time just working on basic stroking, but gradually something familiar starts to stir. The skates begin to feel less foreign, my movements finding tiny glimpses of their old rhythm.

“I want to try something,” I say suddenly, surprising myself.

“What?”

“Just… a waltz jump. The most basic one.” My heart pounds just thinking about it. “Something I could do in my sleep years ago.”

Chase reads my hesitation. “You sure?”

“It’s just a waltz jump,” I mutter, more to convince myself than him.

I set up for it, forward outside edge, building just enough speed. My legs feel shaky beneath me, but I commit. I lift my free leg, swing through and jump.

The takeoff is awkward, my timing off. I barely get the half rotation, and when I come down, I’m completely off balance. My arms windmill wildly as I fight to stay upright, wobbling so badly I’m sure I’ll go down. My ankle rolls dangerously, and panic flashes through me—not again, please not again.

But somehow, miraculously, I manage to stay on my feet. Just barely.

“You did it!” Chase shouts, skating toward me. “Emma, you fucking did it!”

I’m laughing, shaking, equal parts terrified and exhilarated. “I can’t believe I actually did it.”

He lifts me right off the ice, spinning us both in celebration. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. ”

For a moment we’re both breathless, caught up in the rush of what just happened. My legs are still trembling from adrenaline, and I can’t stop the giddy laughter bubbling up from my chest. I did it. I actually did it.

When he sets me down, his expression turns serious. “I’m so proud of you, Emma.”

I look into his eyes, and something inside me shifts. All the worry about work, about what other people think—it seems trivial compared to this moment, this man who believes in me more than I believe in myself.

“I love you,” I say, the words tumbling out naturally.

“I love you too.”

I pull him down for a kiss right there on the ice, the surface that once took everything from me now the foundation for something new, something wonderful.

Whatever challenges lie ahead, whatever obstacles management might throw at us, I know we’ll face them together. Because some things are worth fighting for.