Page 5 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Three

“ T ell me again why I’m voluntarily watching men chase a puck at eight in the morning?” Maya asks, yawning into her coffee cup. “I have a shift at the hospital in two hours.”

I nudge her with my elbow. “Because you’re my best friend and I needed moral support to be within ten feet of the ice without hyperventilating.”

She snorts. “Right. Moral support for your ice trauma.”

Technically, I’m here on orders. Peterson told me yesterday that it would be a “smart move” to come watch morning practice. Get to know how the players move, he said. Their rhythms, their patterns. It’ll help when you’re rehabbing them.

Sure, Dave. Happy to observe the very thing that completely destroyed my career and haunts my nightmares.

So here I am. Sitting in the stands above the Bears’ ice rink, pretending to be fine while a bunch of six-foot-tall men fly across the surface that ruined me.

“You sure this isn’t just an excuse to sneak a peek at a certain blue-eyed player?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she follows my gaze .

It’s not like I planned that part. But yesterday’s awkward reunion with Chase is still fresh, and maybe a tiny part of me wanted a second glance just to remind myself why we need to keep things professional.

“Is that him?” Maya asks, suddenly more alert. She points to the ice where Chase is skating gentle laps. “Number nine?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Damn, girl. I see why you climbed him like a tree at that party.”

“I did not climb him like a tree. We just fooled around a little.”

Maya gives me a look that says she remembers exactly how detailed my drunk recounting of that night had been. “His hand up your dress and his tongue down your throat doesn’t qualify as ‘fooling around a little’ in my book.”

“Can we please not talk about this here? I’m trying to be professional.”

“Mm, very professional to invite your bestie to ogle your hook-up during practice.”

“I did not invite you to ogle him.” But even as I say it, my own eyes track Chase across the ice. His skating form is nearly perfect despite the injury, each movement precise and fluid. The only tell is the slight hesitation when he pivots on his left leg.

The idiot should not be on the ice. I told him explicitly yesterday that he needed rest, ice, compression, and elevation. Not more skating.

“So how was it seeing him again?” Maya asks, watching my face carefully. “As awkward as you feared?”

“Worse,” I groan. “He recognized me immediately, called me ‘Blondie,’ and proceeded to make suggestive comments about our history while I was trying to examine his knee.”

“And?” She raises an eyebrow.

“And what?”

“Was there still chemistry?”

I open my mouth to deny it, then close it again. There’s no point lying to Maya. She knows me too well.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I admit. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m his physical therapist now. There are ethical boundaries. ”

“Boring. But I respect your professional integrity or whatever.”

The team finishes their warm-up laps, and Coach Barrett calls them to center ice. My eyes drift to another player, number seven, and my stomach clenches.

“Speaking of awkward, there’s your ex,” Maya remarks, following my gaze. “Looking like a jerk as always.”

Tyler skates past Chase and says something to him. Even from here, I can feel the tension between them.

“What do you think Tyler’s saying?” I wonder aloud.

“No idea, probably still pissed off that Chase had his fingers inside you a year ago. Though knowing that douche canoe, he’s acting all wounded about it as if he didn’t cheat on you with approximately nine thousand puck bunnies.”

I snort. “Douche canoe?”

“I’m trying new insults. Is it working?”

“Surprisingly well.”

Coach blows his whistle, and the team breaks into groups. My attention inevitably follows Chase.

Maya watches the players move through their stretches. “Holy hell,” she mutters. “That’s just grinding with extra steps.”

“It’s a hip flexor exercise,” I correct her, though I can’t deny the similarity.

“No wonder you have a thing for hockey players. This is basically foreplay on ice.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t have a thing for hockey players. I had a thing for one hockey player, years ago, and it ended badly. And whatever happened with Chase was a one-time lapse in judgment.”

“Uh-huh.” She gives me a knowing look. “That’s definitely why you’re watching his every move.”

I’m saved from responding when Coach calls the team back together for drills. They break into offensive and defensive units, setting up for what looks like a scrimmage .

We watch as Chase wins the face-off, darting away with the puck, his movements quick despite the obvious compensation.

“I thought you told him not to skate today?” Maya asks.

“I did. I told him to stay off the ice completely.”

She laughs. “Seems like he’s not big on following directions.”

“Understatement of the century.”

The scrimmage intensifies, players battling for the puck against the boards, bodies colliding with enough force to make me wince. It’s only practice, but these guys don’t seem to have an “off” switch.

“Em, did you even tell him at the party that your brother plays for the Wolves?”

I shake my head. “No, it never came up. I didn’t even know he played for the Bears until Tyler barged in.”

“So he had no idea you were Jackson Anderson’s little sister when he had his fingers inside you?” She grins. “Oh, that makes it even better.”

“How exactly does that make it better?”

“Because Jackson would murder any Bear who touched you, and Chase did a lot more than touch.”

I groan. “Please don’t remind me. And for the love of God, don’t ever tell Jackson. He’s already pissed enough that I’m working here.”

“Your secret’s safe with me. Though I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly about it in private.”

On the ice, the scrimmage heats up. Chase gets the puck again, fakes out a defenseman, then dishes it to a teammate. There’s something mesmerizing about watching athletes in their element, even stubborn ones who ignore medical advice.

“That boy is gonna blow out his knee if he keeps playing like that,” Maya observes.

She’s right. With every shift of direction, every awkward push-off, Chase is risking turning his Grade 1 sprain into something much worse. And there’s nothing I can do about it from up here in the stands .

Tyler skates up beside him once more, saying something that makes Chase’s jaw tighten. Then Tyler’s gaze shifts up to the stands, and lands directly on me.

Shit.

He gives a smug little wave that makes my stomach turn. I pointedly look away.

“Douche canoe alert,” Maya mutters. “He’s coming over here.”

“What? No.” I turn back to see Tyler skating toward the boards near our seats, that familiar cocky smile on his face that once made my heart race but now just makes me want to throw something at him.

I glance at Chase, who’s watching the interaction with undisguised interest. His blue eyes track Tyler’s movement toward me, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Is that jealousy? Or just typical testosterone-fueled rivalry?

“Emma!” Tyler calls up. “Didn’t expect to see you at practice. Miss me already?”

Maya makes a gagging noise beside me. I paste on my most professional smile.

“Just observing the team, Tyler. Part of my job.”

“Sure it is.” His smirk suggests he thinks I’m there for him, which is so absurd I almost laugh. “We should catch up sometime. You know, for old times’ sake.”

“I don’t think—”

“West!” Coach Barrett’s voice cuts through the air. “This isn’t social hour! Get your ass back in the drill!”

Tyler gives me one last meaningful look before skating away, leaving me fuming and Maya cackling beside me.

“I truly do not understand what you ever saw in him,” she says.

“I was stupid. And he hadn’t revealed his true douche canoe nature yet.”

It’s hard to believe I spent three years with him, planning a future. Then came that night—walking into the apartment and finding him in bed with some random girl. His stammered excuses couldn’t compete with the sound of my heart breaking.

Now he’s just another player on the team I work for. Nothing more.

My gaze drifts back to Chase, who’s now lined up for another drill. Something about the way he’s standing sets off alarm bells in my head. His posture is all wrong, weight shifted awkwardly.

“He’s pushing too hard,” I murmur, more to myself than to Maya.

The drill starts, and Chase takes off, driving toward the net with the puck. He cuts sharply to avoid a defenseman, and that’s when it happens. His left knee buckles, twisting at an unnatural angle. Chase goes down hard, sliding across the ice, his face contorted in pain.

My body moves before my brain can process what I’m doing.

“Emma!” Maya’s voice follows me as I bolt down the stairs toward him. “What about the ice?!”

But I’m already gone, racing toward the boards. I kick off my heels without thinking, vault over the half-wall, and step onto the frozen surface that’s haunted my nightmares for ten years.

Ten years since my own body hit this unyielding surface. Ten years since I felt bones shatter on impact. Ten years of waking up in cold sweats, feeling the phantom pain of my failed triple axel.

But none of that matters right now. Because Chase is down on the ice, curled around his left leg.

I slide to my knees beside him, my therapist brain taking over, pushing past the screaming terror of being on the ice again.

“Chase,” I say firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Chase, look at me.”

His blue eyes, clouded with pain, find mine. “Emma,” he gasps. “Emma, Emma, Emma.”

Just my name, over and over.

“I’m here,” I tell him, already assessing the injury. “Don’t move your leg. Where exactly is the pain?”

“Knee,” he groans. “Fucking knee. Felt it pop.”

Shit. That’s not good .

The team has gathered around us, a circle of concerned faces. I’m vaguely aware of the medical staff approaching, but they’re moving cautiously on the ice, nowhere near as fast as I was.