Page 59 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“ A nderson, a word?”

Coach Willis’s voice stops me as I’m heading toward the treatment room. The Wolves have been on a losing streak the last few games. One more loss and we’re done, season over, Bears advancing to the Stanley Cup Finals.

“Of course, Coach,” I say, turning to face him. “What can I help with?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Word is going around that Mitchell’s knee is acting up again. Anything you want to share about that?”

My stomach drops.

“I haven’t been Chase’s therapist for a while,” I remind him, keeping my voice steady. “And even if I had been, you know I couldn’t share patient information.”

“Even with your current employer? When it might give us a competitive edge?”

The implied accusation stings. “Especially then. Medical ethics don’t change based on who signs my paycheck, Coach.”

Something shifts in his expression—respect, possibly. “Fair enough. But I need to know your head’s in this, Emma. This game is do-or-die for us. I can’t have any member of my staff distracted by personal connections to the opposition.”

“My head is exactly where it needs to be. I’ve maintained strict professional boundaries throughout this series.”

He nods slowly. “Good. Keep it that way. We need everyone at a hundred percent tonight.”

As he walks away, I exhale slowly. This is exactly what I feared when the playoff matchup was announced—suspicion, questioning of my loyalty.

The fact that I’ve barely spoken to Chase since we had dinner doesn’t seem to matter. Perception trumps reality, especially in competitive hockey.

The treatment room is buzzing with pre-game energy when I arrive, players cycling through for last-minute adjustments, treatments, taping. I throw myself into the work, grateful for the distraction from my turbulent thoughts.

Jackson appears just as I’m finishing up with one of our defensemen. My brother looks tired, the weight of constantly losing evident in the shadows under his eyes.

“Got a minute?” he asks, jerking his head toward the hallway.

I follow him out, anxiety fluttering in my stomach. “Everything okay?”

“Mostly.” He glances around to ensure we’re alone. “Look, some of the guys have been talking. About you and Mitchell. About whether you’re feeding him information about our injuries, our strategies.”

The accusation, even secondhand, lands like a slap. “Are you serious? You know I would never—”

“I know,” Jackson interrupts, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I shut it down immediately. Made it very clear that questioning your professionalism was questioning my judgment as captain.”

Relief mingles with continued hurt that the suspicion exists at all. “Thanks for having my back.”

“Always. But I wanted you to know what’s being whispered. So you can be prepared if anyone approaches you directly. ”

I nod, appreciating the warning even as it amplifies my anxiety.

“How are you holding up anyway, Em? And don’t give me the line you’ve been feeding everyone else.”

The question breaks through defenses I’ve been keeping up for weeks. “It’s hard. Harder than I expected. Trying to be excited for Chase while dreading what it means for the Wolves. For you. Maintaining distance when all I want is to talk to him.”

“Have you texted him at all?”

“Once or twice after dinner.” I shake my head, frustration building. “This is ridiculous, Jack. We’re adults, not spies exchanging state secrets. And yet every time I think about reaching out, I worry about how it’ll be perceived.”

“So basically you’re both being stubborn and noble and miserable,” Jackson summarizes. “Sounds about right for you two.”

Before I can respond, Coach Willis appears at the end of the hallway, gesturing urgently. “Team meeting in five.”

Jackson straightens, captain’s mask sliding back into place. “We’re going to win tonight. And then you and Mitchell can figure out this whole star-crossed lovers routine somewhere other than the hockey rink.”

When the teams take the ice for warmups, my eyes find Chase instantly. Like they always do.

He looks good. Confident. Focused. Moving without any visible hitches that might indicate the knee problem Coach Willis mentioned earlier.

I watch him longer than I should, drinking in the sight of him after days of self-imposed distance. He completes a drill, then turns suddenly in my direction, as if sensing my eyes on him. Our gazes lock across the ice, sending a jolt of electricity through my body despite the distance between us.

He raises his stick slightly. Not a celebration, just acknowledgment. I nod once, barely moving, before turning away to continue my preparations.

The first period is intense. Tight checking, few scoring chances, both teams aware of the stakes and playing with appropriate caution.

Jackson plays like a man possessed, throwing hits, blocking shots, leading with a ferocity that inspires his teammates.

Chase responds, using his speed and skill to create opportunities that only spectacular goaltending keeps from becoming goals.

It’s scoreless after twenty minutes, and the tension is climbing higher with each passing second.

The second period brings the breakthrough Wolves fans have been waiting for. A power play goal by Stevens, assisted by Jackson, putting us up 1-0. The bench erupts in celebration, temporary relief from the crushing pressure of elimination.

But the Bears respond with poise and patience. Chase ties the game late in the second, a beautiful individual effort that showcases his skill. I can’t help the surge of pride I feel watching him celebrate, even as disappointment for the Wolves twists in my stomach.

Tied 1-1 entering the third period. Twenty minutes to determine if the Wolves’ season continues or ends tonight.

The intensity escalates immediately, both teams abandoning caution in pursuit of the go-ahead goal.

I’m standing in the tunnel, unable to tear myself away despite work waiting in the treatment room, when I notice something concerning.

Number 23, Rodriguez—a guy who’s been chippy all series—is playing differently.

Finishing checks with unnecessary force, initiating contact after whistles, targeting Jackson specifically with increasing frequency.

My brother gives as good as he gets, never one to back down, but there’s something in Rodriguez’s demeanor that sends alarm bells ringing. A recklessness, a disregard for normal boundaries .

“Keep an eye on twenty-three,” I murmur to Coach Willis as he passes. “He’s hunting Jackson.”

He nods sharply, already aware of the developing situation. “Anderson can handle himself.”

I’m not so sure. Rodriguez has been getting more aggressive with every shift, and when they’re back on the ice together, I can see trouble brewing.

He shadows Jackson, looking for his opening.

It comes during a scrum along the boards.

Jackson digs for the puck, head down and vulnerable.

Rodriguez approaches from his blind side, picking up speed, clearly planning a hit that will do serious damage.

“Jackson!” I shout, but my warning gets swallowed by the noise.

Someone else sees it too. Tyler, positioned nearby, reads his teammate’s intention immediately. Without hesitation, he lunges forward, inserting himself between them just as Rodriguez launches himself forward.

The collision happens before I can blink. A full speed impact that sends both Tyler and Rodriguez sprawling. Jackson spins around, eyes widening as he registers what nearly happened and what Tyler has done.

The whistle blows, players converging, officials trying to restore order. I watch as Tyler slowly rises to his feet, clearly shaken. Rodriguez gets up too, looking dazed but fine.

Clean hit, by hockey standards. No penalties assessed. Just Tyler putting himself between danger and Jackson, protecting my brother at cost to himself.

Tyler skates to the bench, but something’s off. There’s a hitch in his stride, a careful way he’s moving that sets off alarm bells in my head. I watch him sit down, favoring his right leg slightly, trying to hide it from his teammates and coaching staff.

The game resumes, but something has fundamentally shifted. Tyler’s intervention has changed the emotional temperature on the ice. The Wolves play with renewed purpose, perhaps inspired by the sportsmanship they witnessed .

But the Bears’ skill eventually proves too much to overcome. With five minutes remaining, Donovan scores what proves to be the series clinching goal, a deflection that finds the top corner beyond our goalie’s desperate reach.

Bears 2, Wolves 1. Series over. Season over for Hartford.

The final buzzer sounds like a death knell, players collapsing in exhaustion and disappointment on both sides of the ice.

After the handshake line, I watch Tyler being helped off the ice by Bears medical staff. He’s trying not to show it, but he’s definitely limping.

Jackson finds me an hour later, showered and changed, the captain’s mask temporarily set aside to reveal the raw disappointment beneath.

“You okay?” I ask softly, knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

“I will be,” he says, sinking into a chair beside my work station. “Not tonight, probably not tomorrow. But eventually.”

I nod, understanding completely. “You played your heart out. The whole team did.”

“Wasn’t enough.” He sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. “Bears were better. As much as it kills me to admit it.”

“They’re a great team.”

Jackson’s mouth quirks in a small smile. “Yeah, hard to hate them after what two of their players have done for me.”

“What did you say to Tyler during handshakes by the way?”

“Thanked him. Told him he didn’t have to do that.” Jackson pauses. “He said he owed me one. For what happened before.”

The simple statement sends warmth through my chest .

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text from Chase.

Chase: Congratulations on a hell of a series. When can I see you?

I stare at the screen, a smile spreading across my face. The professional distance suddenly seems unnecessary now that competition is over.

Me: Tonight. After you’re done celebrating with your team.

Chase: I’ll be there. Might be late.

Me: I’ll wait.

Jackson watches me with knowing eyes. “Mitchell?”

I nod, not bothering to hide my smile. “We’re seeing each other tonight.”

“Good,” he says simply. “It’s about time you two stopped this ridiculous separation.”

He stands, wincing slightly. “I’m heading out with the guys. Team tradition. You coming?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight. I have some things to take care of here.”

“Things named Chase Mitchell?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Eventually. But I need to finish post-game reports first.”

Jackson squeezes my shoulder before heading toward the door. “Text me tomorrow. And Em? I’m happy for you. Despite everything, I really am.”

After he leaves, I sit for a moment, processing everything. Jackson’s season ending, Chase advancing to the Finals, our professional distance finally dissolving.

I should be more disappointed about the Wolves’ elimination. And I am, especially for Jackson. But there’s also undeniable relief that the forced separation from Chase is ending.

With a deep breath, I stand and gather my things. There’s still work to do before I can see him.

Across the arena, I know champagne is flowing in the visitors’ locker room, their victory loud and raucous. Chase is there, surrounded by teammates, but I also know his thoughts are elsewhere—counting down the hours until he can slip away to me .

Some victories happen on the ice. Others are still waiting to be claimed.