Page 63 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emm a

Chapter Forty-Two — Emma

G ame day dawns clear and crisp in Pinewood, the Bears hosting the first two games of the series against the Seattle Storm. I fly in that morning, met at the airport by Patricia, Chase’s mom.

“Chase is at morning skate,” she explains as we drive through Pinewood’s tree-lined streets. “Team rules—no distractions on game day. But he made me promise to get you settled in.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to pick me up, though. I could have taken a taxi.”

“Nonsense.” She waves away my protest. “You’re important to Chase, which makes you important to us. Besides, it gives me a chance to get to know you better without my son hovering.”

I laugh, relaxing into the easy conversation. The town is decked out in Bears’ colors, Stanley Cup Finals banners hanging from every lamppost.

“The whole town is buzzing,” she says, following my gaze. “Second Finals appearance in two years. And Chase being named Conference MVP has everyone convinced they’ve got this in the bag.”

“He’s been incredible. His recovery from that knee injury earlier in the season… I’ve never seen anyone work so hard. ”

She gives me a knowing look. “With the right motivation, my son can accomplish just about anything. And you, my dear, have been quite the motivation.”

I feel my cheeks heat. “I was just doing my job.”

“Mmm.” She parks in front of a boutique hotel in downtown Pinewood. “Well, your ‘job’ gave him back more than just a healthy knee, from what I can see.”

Inside the hotel, I discover Chase has arranged not just a room but an entire suite, complete with a balcony overlooking the town square. A Bears jersey— his jersey, with MITCHELL emblazoned across the back—is laid out on the bed alongside a handwritten note.

For tonight. So everyone knows you’re mine. See you after the game. -C

“That boy,” Patricia observes with a fond shake of her head when she sees the jersey. “Subtle as a freight train.”

I trace the letters of his name, a smile tugging at my lips. “He really is.”

“I’ll leave you to get settled.” She heads for the door. “Richard and I will pick you up at six for the game. Chase arranged for us all to have box seats.”

“I’ll be ready,” I promise, already mentally cataloging what I packed that’s appropriate for a Stanley Cup Finals box.

Once she’s gone, I sprawl across the bed, phone in hand, debating whether to text Chase. He’s probably in game-day mode now, focused and intense in a way I’ve come to recognize and respect. But I want him to know I’m here, supporting him.

Me: Made it to Pinewood. Found the jersey. Subtle, Mitchell.

Chase: Nothing subtle about how I feel about you, Anderson. Can’t wait to see you tonight.

Me: Good luck. I’ll be the one in the box screaming louder than your mom.

Chase: God, I love you.

Three simple words that still have the power to stop my breath.

Me: I love you too. Now focus on your practice.

The Bears’ arena is electric. A sea of blue on one side, gold and purple on the other. Thunderous chants echo off the rafters as we make our way to our box seats. I’m wearing a subtle blue dress, saving Chase’s jersey for when the game begins.

The Storm take the ice first, met with a chorus of boos that’s more tradition than genuine animosity. Then the Bears emerge from the tunnel, Chase among them, and the crowd erupts into deafening cheers.

Even from this distance, I can pick him out instantly—number nine, his movements confident, focused, a man in his element. He circles the ice during warmups, head turning toward the boxes as if searching for someone specific.

For me.

When he spots me, his face breaks into a smile visible even from this distance. He raises his stick in a small salute, too subtle for most to notice but unmistakable to me.

“He really is gone for you, isn’t he?” Richard remarks beside me, his gruff voice holding a note of approval.

“The feeling’s mutual,” I admit, unable to tear my eyes away from Chase.

The game itself is everything the first game of the Finals should be—fast, physical, with momentum swinging wildly between periods.

The Bears dominate the first, Chase scoring on a beautiful breakaway that brings the crowd to its feet.

The Storm surge in the second, tying the game on a power play goal.

I watch with the critical eye of a physical therapist and the emotional investment of a girlfriend, wincing at particularly hard hits, holding my breath when Chase has the puck, screaming myself hoarse when he scores again early in the third period .

The Bears end up winning 3-1, with Chase named first star of the game after his two-goal performance. The crowd is delirious, the arena pulsing with collective joy.

“Chase wants us to wait for him outside the locker room,” Patricia tells me as the crowd begins to disperse. “Said he has something special planned for tonight.”

“Special?” I echo, curious and slightly wary. “What’s he up to?”

She shrugs, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself.”

Post-game protocol means we wait nearly an hour before Chase emerges, freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing a tailored suit that makes my mouth go dry. He greets his parents first, accepting their congratulations.

Then he turns to me, and everything else seems to fade away.

“Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” I respond, strangely shy. “Impressive game, Mitchell.”

“I was playing for someone special.” He steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. “You wore the jersey.”

I had, changing into it just before the game started. “Seemed appropriate.”

He kisses me then, right there in the arena corridor where anyone might see—teammates, media, fans. A kiss that’s both claiming and reverent, a public declaration.

“I have plans for us tonight,” he announces when we part. “If you’re not too tired from traveling.”

“What kind of plans?”

“It’s a surprise. Trust me?”

“Always.”

He leads me out through a private exit to where a sleek black SUV waits, a uniformed driver standing beside the open rear door.

As we settle into the plush leather interior, I study Chase’s profile in the dim light. “Your dad seems different. More… relaxed about everything. ”

His expression shifts, a flicker of old tension crossing his face. “Yeah, he’s come a long way since that day at my place after the injury.”

“I remember.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. “He blamed me. Said you jeopardized your entire career ‘because of her.’”

Chase takes my hand, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. “He was wrong. And I think even he knows that now.”

“What changed?”

“Mom happened. After they left that day, she apparently tore into him at the hotel. Told him if he ever treated you like that again, she’d make sure he slept on the couch until the next ice age.”

I laugh softly, remembering how I’d pointedly informed Richard about my Master’s degree. “I was terrified, but I wasn’t going to let him dismiss me like that.”

“Dad’s always been hockey-obsessed. Having his own career cut short made him put everything into mine. But seeing me come back from the injury, make it to the Finals…” Chase shakes his head. “I think he’s finally realizing there’s more to life than hockey.”

“Like what?” I ask, heart racing at the intensity in his eyes.

His fingers brush my cheek. “Like this. Like us.”

The driver clears his throat discreetly. “We’ve arrived, Mr. Mitchell.”

I see we’ve pulled up outside Antonio’s, the intimate Italian restaurant where we had our first “practice date” months ago. The windows glow with warm light, and I notice the CLOSED sign despite the activity inside.

“Did you rent out the entire restaurant?” I ask, incredulous.

Chase grins. “Maybe. Come on, let’s go inside.”

We eat and drink and talk, reliving the game’s best moments, completely avoiding any mention of what happens when I return to Hartford. Tonight isn’t about complications. Tonight is just about us, about celebrating, about how far we’ve come.

After dinner, Chase suggests a walk through the town park, which strikes me as odd given the late hour but feels too romantic to refuse. It’s only when we enter the park and I see the pathway lined with fairy lights that I realize this isn’t spontaneous.

“Chase,” I breathe, taking in the twinkling lights, the rose petals scattered along the path. “What is all this?”

“Just keep walking,” he says, his voice strangely tight.

I follow the illuminated path through the trees to a small clearing where a gazebo waits, draped in hundreds of tiny lights and cascading flowers. Chase guides me up the steps, and once we’re inside, I can barely catch my breath.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, turning slowly to take it all in.

Chase positions himself in front of me, capturing both my hands in his. Under the gentle light, his face looks different—softer somehow, stripped of all that trademark cockiness.

“Emma,” he begins, voice rough with emotion. “I had this whole speech planned. About how you fixed more than just my knee. About how you challenge me, call me on my crap, make me want to be better. About how the thought of not waking up next to you every morning physically hurts.”

“Chase,” I interrupt, tears already threatening. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he drops to one knee, still holding my hands. “I know it’s fast. I know we still have things to figure out, distance to navigate. But I also know that I love you, that I want forever with you.”

He releases one of my hands to reach into his pocket, producing a small velvet box.

“Maya helped me pick this out,” he reveals, opening it to reveal a ring that takes my breath away. The center stone is a European-cut diamond, about one carat, with small emeralds on either side that catch the light and match my eyes perfectly.

Time seems to stop as he looks up at me, blue eyes reflecting the lights, full of a love so raw and honest it takes my breath away.

“Emma Anderson, will you marry me? ”

The tears I’ve been fighting spill over. A thousand thoughts race through my mind—it’s too soon, we live in different cities, my career, his career, the complications that still exist.

But overriding all of that is one simple, undeniable truth: I love this man. Completely, irrevocably, with all the broken and healing parts of myself.

“Yes,” I whisper, then louder, “Yes, Chase. Yes.”

His face breaks into the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen as he slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, as if it was always meant to be there. Then he’s on his feet, sweeping me into his arms and spinning us around.

When he sets me down, he kisses me—deep, thorough, a promise sealed with the press of his lips against mine.

Neither of us notices the flash of cameras until it’s too late. Local media, tipped off somehow about the proposal, capturing the moment for tomorrow’s headlines. By morning, the photos will be everywhere, our private joy turned public spectacle.

But in this moment, with Chase’s arms around me and the ring on my finger, I can’t bring myself to care who sees or what they think.

“I love you,” I tell him, my voice steady despite the tears still flowing. “So much.”

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. “Because you just agreed to put up with me for the rest of your life, Anderson.”

“That’s Mitchell to you,” I correct, holding up my left hand. “Or it will be.”

His laugh is joy and relief and love all tangled together. “Emma Mitchell. Has a nice ring to it.”

“Terrible pun,” I groan, but I’m laughing too.

“Get used to it. I have a lifetime of dad jokes just waiting to be unleashed.”

“Lucky me,” I murmur against his lips, meaning it completely .

Lucky, improbable, unexpected. A physical therapist with ice-induced trauma and the hockey star who helped her heal. Rivals, then fake dating, now engaged with a lifetime stretching before us.

Whatever comes next—the rest of the Finals, merging our lives, the professional complications that still need sorting—we’ll face it together.

And that’s better than any championship, any career achievement, any accomplishment either of us could have imagined.

That’s everything.