Page 53 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Thirty-Four

“ Y ou still want to watch the game?” Maya asks when she gets home from work, eyeing the packed boxes stacked by the door like accusations of my imminent betrayal.

“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “One last Bears game before I become the enemy.”

She grins, already heading for the fridge. “I’ll get the beer; you order the pizza.”

By the time the game starts, we’re settled on the couch with our familiar ritual spread before us—pizza growing cold, beer warming in my untouched bottle, and the nervous energy that always accompanies playoff hockey.

I tell myself I’m watching to support the team, to see my former colleagues compete for the championship they’ve worked toward all season.

But as the cameras pan across the players during the anthem, lingering on Chase’s solemn face, I know the real reason: I need to see him one last time, even if it’s just through a screen.

“He looks like crap,” Maya observes bluntly.

She’s not wrong. Even through the television’s unforgiving lens, I can see the shadows carved beneath his eyes, the hollowness in his cheeks, the way his usually vibrant presence seems dimmed somehow. He’s lost weight, his jersey hanging looser than I remember.

The rational part of my brain knows I was cruel when he suggested the break.

I was drowning—my career crumbling, my reputation in tatters, everything I’d built since my accident falling apart like a house of cards.

When he suggested we separate, it felt like the final betrayal, like even the person who claimed to love me was abandoning ship.

Maybe I should have recognized his misguided attempt to protect me for what it was—love, not rejection. But I was so tired of fighting, so exhausted by the weight of keeping everything together while the world tried to tear me down.

The game begins with intensity straight away, both teams skating hard, hitting harder. Chase plays cautiously at first, his usual creativity muted by something I recognize too well—the careful movements of someone playing through pain.

“His left knee’s bothering him,” I murmur, professional instincts overriding emotional distance. “He’s not pushing off with full power on that side.”

“You can tell that from the TV?”

“I spent months rehabbing that knee. I know exactly how it moves when it’s compromised.”

She gives me a sidelong look loaded with meaning. “And you’re just going to leave town knowing he’s playing injured?”

“He has a new PT now,” I say, the words sharp with defensiveness I don’t quite understand. “Mr. Richards is perfectly capable.”

“But he isn’t you.”

I don’t respond, eyes fixed on the screen where Chase has just missed a pass, allowing the Orcas to transition quickly. His mistake leads directly to the first goal against the Bears, and the cameras catch his frustrated expression as he skates back to the bench with shoulders hunched in defeat.

“He’s distracted.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Maya mutters .

Watching him struggle feels fundamentally wrong, like witnessing something sacred being diminished. The Chase Mitchell I fell for was filled with fire and confidence and an unstoppable drive. This version—hesitant, making uncharacteristic errors—is a shadow of that man.

As the second period begins, Maya’s phone begins to ring. She checks the caller ID and frowns. “It’s your brother. Hey, Ice Capades, what’s up?”

“Is Emma with you?” Jackson asks, his voice tight with irritation that carries clearly through the speaker.

“I’m here. What’s wrong?”

“Are you watching the Bears game?”

“Yes… why?”

“Because Mitchell’s playing like he’s never seen ice before. And the rumor mill says it’s because of your breakup.”

I stiffen, old defenses snapping into place. “That’s not my problem.”

“It is when half the league is talking about it,” Jackson counters. “Including my new teammates, who are wondering if bringing you on is going to create unnecessary drama.”

“There won’t be any. Chase and I are over.”

“Then why is he scanning the stands every chance he gets like he’s looking for someone?”

I glance at the TV where, sure enough, Chase is on the bench, his gaze sweeping the crowd with unmistakable purpose. The cameras have caught it multiple times now.

“I can’t control what he does.”

“No, but you can clear the air before you start with the Wolves. Coach Willis is already nervous about the media attention. Sort it, Em.”

After he hangs up, Maya and I sit in silence. My mind races between indignation at Jackson’s presumption and the uncomfortable awareness that he has a point. If Chase’s performance continues to be linked to our breakup in the media, it could cast a shadow over my fresh start.

“You should go to the game,” Maya suggests suddenly .

“What?”

“Go to the arena. Right now. You could be there for the third period.”

“That’s crazy. The game’s already half over.”

“Exactly, which means you’ll miss the worst traffic. And don’t you want to see the Bears win one last time in person?”

“Maya…” I begin, but she’s already reaching for my jacket.

“You’ve spent weeks hiding from this, Em. Running away to Hartford isn’t going to fix what’s broken. At least see him one more time, face to face, before you go.”

Her words strike at the core of my fear—that distance won’t heal this wound, that I’m not running toward something new but away from something unresolved.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“All the more reason to do this tonight,” she counters, holding out my jacket. “What do you have to lose?”

Pride, I think but don’t say. The fragile composure I’ve managed to maintain. The pretense that my heart doesn’t still race at the thought of seeing him again.

But Maya’s right. I am running. And maybe before I can truly move forward, I need to face what I’m running from.

“Fine. But I’m just going to watch the game. I’m not promising to talk to him or make some grand gesture.”

“Of course not,” Maya agrees too readily. “You’re just being a supportive former colleague.”

The drive to the arena passes in a blur of familiar streets and mounting anxiety. I find parking easily and make my way inside, the sensory assault hitting me—the smell of popcorn and beer, the thunderous cheers echoing off concrete walls, the palpable tension of playoff hockey.

I’m going to miss this energy, this building where I’ve spent so many hours healing broken bodies and, inadvertently, losing my own heart.

An usher helps me find an empty seat near the Bears’ bench, close enough to see the players clearly but far enough back that Chase won’t easily spot me. I settle in just as the third period is about to begin, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

The game is still 1-0 for the Orcas, but something has shifted in the Bears’ energy during intermission.

They take the ice with renewed purpose, and Chase in particular seems transformed.

His skating is sharper, his movements more decisive, his whole demeanor radiating the confidence that made him a star.

Whatever happened in that locker room, it worked.

Five minutes into the period, Chase makes his move, splitting the defense with a burst of speed I haven’t seen from him since before his injury. The crowd rises to its feet as he bears down on the net, but instead of shooting, he passes at the last second to Donny who taps it in for the tying goal.

The arena erupts, and I find myself on my feet with everyone else, cheering despite my conflicted emotions. As the team celebrates, Chase’s eyes scan the crowd again, still searching, unaware that what he’s looking for is finally here.

The remainder of the period unfolds like a fever dream, both teams pushing hard, the tension ratcheting higher with each shift.

With thirty seconds left, Chase wins a crucial face-off that leads to a rush up ice.

I watch, breath held, as he crosses the blue line with the puck, one-on-one with the defender.

I know his moves, can predict them from countless hours of watching him play. He’ll fake right, go left, then shoot high glove side.

But instead, something unexpected happens. He touches his chest, right where I know he keeps the necklace I gave him, my lucky charm. The gesture is so intimate, so personal, that I feel like an intruder witnessing a private moment between him and a memory.

Then he fires—a quick, precise shot that finds the back of the net like it was always destined to be there.

Game over. Bears win.

The crowd goes wild, celebration erupting all around me in waves of pure joy. But I can’t join in, frozen in my seat as emotions crash through me like a riptide. Pride in what Chase has accomplished. Joy at seeing him succeed. Grief for what we’ve lost. Fear of what comes next.

And through it all, one clear, unavoidable truth: I still love him. Desperately, completely, despite everything.

“You should go down there,” the woman next to me says, breaking into my emotional spiral.

“What?”

“You’re her, aren’t you? The physical therapist. His girlfriend.” She nods toward the ice where Chase is being mobbed by teammates, his face radiant with triumph.

“Ex-girlfriend,” I correct automatically.

She smiles knowingly. “Not from the way you watched him score.”

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with Maya’s inevitable text.

Maya: Did you make it? Did he see you?

Me: Made it for the third period. He scored the winning goal. Heading home now.

Maya: WHAT? You can’t leave now, he just won! Go see him!

Me: I can’t. There’s media everywhere, security, fans. It’s chaos.

Maya: Since when does Emma Anderson let chaos stop her?

Since I got my heart broken, I think but don’t text.

I make my way out of the arena against the tide of celebrating fans, each step feeling heavier than the last. The corridors that once felt like home now seem foreign, charged with memories I’m not ready to revisit.

This was a mistake. Coming to watch him play one last time has only made leaving harder, reopened wounds I thought were beginning to scar over .

But I’ve made my decision. Signed the contract with the Wolves, packed my life into boxes ready for tomorrow’s move. One brilliant game, one moment of connection through a necklace he probably doesn’t even realize I saw—it doesn’t change the fundamental reality.

Chase decided we were better apart. And now, for my own sanity, I have to honor that decision and build something new without him.

In the parking lot, I stop for one last look at the arena, its lights glowing against the night sky like a beacon.

A chapter of my life is ending here, not just professionally but personally.

Whatever Chase and I might have been—whatever future we might have built together—it belongs to a story that will remain unfinished.

Tomorrow, I start writing a new one. Without him.

I just wish the thought didn’t feel so much like defeat.