Page 57 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“ A nderson, we need you in treatment room three. Lewis is having issues with that shoulder again.”

I nod at Coach Willis, already gathering my supplies. “I’ll be right there.”

Two weeks into my position with the Wolves, and I’m finally finding my rhythm. The players are starting to trust me, to seek me out specifically for their aches and pains. It feels good. Validating. Professional in a way my time with the Bears had stopped being after all the personal drama.

But as I make my way to treatment room three, I can’t help checking my phone for texts from Chase as I have been doing compulsively since our coffee meeting. Nothing new since last night’s post-game message.

Chase: We won. Conference finals next. Against the Wolves. How’s that for complicated?

The Bears versus the Wolves in the Eastern Conference Finals. My current team against my former one. Chase’s team against Jackson’s.

The universe has a twisted sense of humor sometimes.

“There she is,” Lewis says as I enter the treatment room. “The miracle worker. ”

I smile, setting my equipment on the counter. “Let’s not oversell my abilities. How’s the shoulder feeling today?”

“Better after what you did yesterday,” he admits, rotating it cautiously. “But still catching when I try to raise it above my head.”

As I work on his shoulder, my mind continues to circle the upcoming series against the Bears. It’s not just about Chase, though he’s a significant part of my anxiety. It’s about facing my former colleagues, proving I’ve moved on, that I’m thriving in my new role.

“Word around the locker room is you used to work for the Bears,” Lewis observes. “Going to be weird facing them in the Conference Finals?”

“A little,” I admit. “But I’m a Wolf now. My loyalties are clear.”

Are they, though? When Chase is on the ice, when it’s the Bears against the Wolves, where will my heart really be?

I push the thought away, focusing on completing Lewis’s treatment.

The rest of the morning passes quickly. Appointments, evaluations, treatment plans. Working with Jackson’s team is different than the Bears in subtle ways—different systems, different priorities—but the core of what I do remains the same.

“Lunch?” Jackson appears in my doorway just as I’m finishing notes. “Team’s heading to that Italian place down the street.”

“Can’t,” I decline, gesturing to my laptop. “Too much paperwork. Rain check?”

He studies me for a moment, seeing more than I want him to. “This about the Bears? You avoiding the team bonding because it feels like divided loyalties?”

“Maybe,” I admit, knowing denial is pointless with my brother. “It’s complicated, Jack.”

He enters fully, closing the door behind him. “Because of Mitchell.”

“Partly,” I admit. “But it’s more than that. These guys are still getting to know me, still deciding if they trust me. I don’t want them questioning where my head is just because I used to work for our opponent. ”

“No one’s questioning your commitment, Em,” Jackson assures, perching on the edge of my desk. “You’ve proven yourself these past weeks. Coach Willis is already calling you his best hiring decision in years.”

The praise warms me, but anxiety lingers. “It’s different when it’s the Bears, Jack. There’s history there.”

“With the team, or with Mitchell?” he asks, cutting straight to the heart of it.

“Both,” I confess.

Jackson sighs. “You’ve been seeing him. On his days off.”

I hadn’t realized I was so transparent. “We’re taking things slow. Rebuilding trust. Seeing if there’s still something worth salvaging.”

“And is there?” Jackson asks, his tone gentler than I expected.

“Yes,” I admit finally. “There is. Maybe there always was.”

He nods, accepting this without judgment. “Then we’ll deal with the playoffs like the professionals we are. You’ll do your job for the Wolves, Mitchell will do his for the Bears, and whatever’s happening between you personally stays separate from work.”

“That simple, huh?” I ask.

“Not simple,” he corrects. “Necessary.”

The team lunch is less awkward than I feared. Most of the guys are focused on playoff preparations, discussing the Bears’ strengths and weaknesses. I contribute where appropriate, offering insights, careful to frame everything in professional terms.

It’s only when Stevens, one of our defensemen, directly asks about Chase that I feel my composure waver .

“Mitchell’s knee,” he says, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Word was it was worse than they let on earlier in the season. You treated him, right? How vulnerable is it really?”

All eyes land on me, and suddenly the air feels heavier. The loyalty I feel toward Chase—that quiet, persistent thing that hasn’t dulled even with time or distance—clashes with everything I’ve built here.

“I recused myself from his care a while ago. Ethically, I can’t discuss details about a former patient.”

Stevens huffs. “Come on. It’s hockey. Any edge helps.”

I meet his eyes and don’t blink. “And if it were you? If you were the one with something to hide, would you want your PT handing out the playbook to the other side?”

His expression falters, and to his credit, he looks a little ashamed. “Fair point.”

“Trust me,” Jackson cuts in, tone light but firm, “we don’t need medical gossip to take down the Bears. We’ll beat them by being better.”

The room relaxes, tension bleeding out. I glance at my brother, and he gives a slight nod.

This is how it’s going to be for the rest of the series. Tiptoeing that invisible line between what I used to be to Chase and what I am now. Between loyalty and duty. Between heart and job.

Back at the facility, I find a text waiting from Chase.

Chase: Just found out that I’m coming to Hartford two days early for media obligations. Dinner tomorrow night?

My pulse quickens. We’ve settled into a rhythm these past weeks—visits on his days off, daily texts, occasional phone calls. We’ve been taking careful, measured steps toward rebuilding what was broken.

But that was before our professional worlds collided directly.

Me: Not sure that’s a good idea with our upcoming game and media everywhere. Us having dinner would be catnip for them.

Chase: Room service at my hotel then? No public appearances, just us.

The suggestion tempts me. The privacy, the chance to see him without scrutiny, to continue the slow reconnection we’ve been nurturing .

Me: I’ll think about it.

My new apartment feels emptier than usual when I arrive home that evening. I’ve made it homey in the past few weeks, creating a space that feels like mine.

Tonight, though, the solitude weighs more heavily as I consider Chase’s invitation and everything it represents.

My phone rings that evening. It’s Maya, checking in like she does most evenings.

“Tell me you’re not overthinking the dinner invitation,” she begins without preamble.

I laugh in spite of myself. “Hello to you too. And how did you know about that?”

“Chase texted me. Wanted my opinion on whether I thought you’d actually say yes or if he was pushing too hard.”

That catches me off guard. “He texted you? About me?”

“We’ve developed a sort of alliance these past weeks. Operation Get Emma Back, or whatever.”

“That’s… unexpected.”

“He’s trying, Em,” Maya continues, her voice softening. “Really trying. Not just the grand gestures, but the small stuff too. Asking advice. Respecting boundaries. Putting in the work.”

I sink onto my couch. “I know he is. That’s what makes this so complicated. If he were still the same Chase who broke up with me ‘for my own good,’ this would be easy.”

“But he’s not that guy anymore,” Maya points out. “Or at least, he’s working hard not to be.”

“Exactly. And now with the playoff series, everything is more complicated. Seeing him feels like divided loyalty.”

“To whom?” Maya challenges. “Your job is treating injured players, not cheering for goals. Dating Chase doesn’t make you any less committed to your team.”

“Try explaining that to the media if they catch us having dinner together before the Conference Finals start.”

“Hence the room service suggestion. Which shows consideration for your position. He’s thinking about how to see you without creating complications.”

She’s right. The private dinner suggestion shows maturity, another sign of the growth Chase has been showing.

“So what’s really holding you back?” Maya asks when I don’t respond.

“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Not of the media or professional complications. I’m scared of how much I still feel for him. How easily I could fall back into us without thinking it through.”

“You’ve already forgiven him,” she observes. “So why are you still sitting on the bench like you’re scared to skate? Emma. Come on .”

“I don’t know,” I admit, frustrated with myself. “I think… maybe I’m overthinking it. Waiting for some perfect moment that doesn’t exist.”

Maya exhales. “Exactly. Babe, if he’s changed, and you want this, then stop making it more complicated than it needs to be.”

After we hang up, I text him.

Me: Room service works. What time?

Chase: 7:30. Hilton downtown. Room 1216.

I stand outside his door the next evening, nerves coiled tight. Chase opens it almost immediately, looking like he’s stepped out of a magazine—dark jeans, blue button-down, hair still damp from the shower.

“Hi,” he says, voice low. “Come in.”

Dinner’s already set up by the window. Nothing extravagant, but still perfect.

We sit and eat, conversation hovering around safe topics until Chase leans back.

“So. Bears versus Wolves.”

“Professional. Civil. No leaking playbooks.”

He chuckles. “Deal.”

There’s a pause before he speaks again.

“I’ve been thinking about after.”

I glance up. “After?”

“When the season’s over. No matter how it ends.” He exhales, eyes locked on mine. “You’ll still be in Hartford. I’ll still be in Pinewood. But two hours isn’t a deal breaker.”

I nod slowly. “It’s not.”

“I want this. Us. However this looks. I’m all in.”

My throat tightens. “I want it too.”