Page 65 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma’s waiting in the hotel lobby when I arrive, dressed in jeans and a Bears t-shirt that makes my heart do stupid things in my chest. She’s on the phone, but her face lights up when she sees me.

“Maya, I have to go. He’s here.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll send pictures. No, I’m not letting you plan a bachelorette with strippers. Goodbye!”

She ends the call and walks over to me, rising on her tiptoes for a quick kiss.

“Your mother texted. We’re being summoned for lunch.”

“So I heard.” I wrap my arms around her waist. “How many people have you told?”

“Just Maya and my mom so far. Jackson’s been practicing a lot lately, so he hasn’t been around to take a phone call.” She holds up her phone. “Though according to Instagram, the whole world knows already.”

“Sorry about that. Didn’t know the media would be there.”

“I don’t care.” She loops her arms around my neck. “I kind of like that everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Possessive,” I tease. “It’s cute.”

Le Petit Café is a small French bistro tucked away on a side street in downtown Pinewood, my mother’s favorite spot for special occasions. When we arrive, I’m surprised to find not just my parents waiting, but a crowd of familiar faces—teammates, coaching staff, even the Bears’ general manager.

“Surprise!” my mother calls, rushing forward to hug us both. “We couldn’t let you get engaged without a proper celebration!”

Emma freezes beside me, her hand tightening on mine. “Oh my god. I’m not dressed for this. ”

“You’re perfect,” I assure her, guiding her into the restaurant where everyone immediately surrounds us with congratulations.

The party is perfect—casual enough that Emma relaxes after the initial shock, intimate enough that we get to speak with everyone.

My father gives an emotional toast that makes my throat tight, and Coach follows with one that manages to be both congratulatory and a reminder that we still have a Cup to win.

Halfway through lunch, Emma’s phone rings. She glances at the screen, then at me, eyes wide. “It’s Jackson.”

“Take it,” I encourage her. “Tell him I said hi.”

She steps away to answer, and I watch her face as she speaks with her brother—nervous at first, then relaxing into a smile, then laughing at something he says. When she returns, her eyes are suspiciously bright.

“What did he say?” I ask, taking her hand.

“That he’s happy for me,” she explains, blinking rapidly. “That he still thinks you’re an arrogant pretty boy, but that I could do worse. And that he’s looking forward to being your brother-in-law just so he can torment you legally.”

I laugh, relieved and oddly touched. “Sounds about right.”

“He also said to tell you good luck tomorrow. Not that he’s rooting for the Bears, but…” She shrugs. “Progress.”

Life can’t possibly get better than this.

I should have known the universe was listening.

Because game two is a fucking disaster.

From the opening faceoff, nothing goes right. The Storm comes out hitting hard, forechecking aggressively and frustrating our breakout at every turn. By the end of the first period, we’re down 2-0, and I’ve been knocked on my ass more times than I can count.

“They want it more,” Coach says during intermission, voice cold with disappointment. “Simple as that, boys. They’re playing like their season depends on it, and we’re playing like we expect them to hand us the Cup. ”

The second period is marginally better. We score once on a power play, closing the gap to 2-1, but the Storm respond with another goal in the final minute, crushing our momentum heading into the third.

I catch a glimpse of Emma in the family box before the final period. She’s wearing my jersey again, her face tight with concern. I raise my stick her way, our usual signal, and something in my chest settles.

But it’s not enough. Despite outshooting the Storm in the third, we can’t get past their goalie. Final score: 3-1. Series tied 1-1 heading to Seattle.

The locker room is somber, the celebratory mood from earlier completely evaporated. Coach’s post-game speech is brief and pointed: we got outworked, outplayed, outhustled. Unacceptable in the Finals.

I shower quickly, exhaustion seeping into my bones. The high of yesterday—the proposal, the win, the party—feels distant now, replaced by the heavy weight of expectations.

Emma’s there when I come out of the locker room. No bullshit pep talk or trying to fix anything—she just walks right into my arms and holds on tight.

“You okay?” she asks quietly against my chest.

“Been better,” I admit, letting myself lean on her for a moment. “I played like shit.”

“The whole team did,” she points out. “Plus, one bad game doesn’t define the series.”

I nod, not quite believing it but appreciating the sentiment. “We fly to Seattle tomorrow. Game three the day after.”

“I know.” She steps back, studying my face. “I’ve already arranged for time off. I’ll fly out with you.”

Relief floods through me. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she interrupts. “No way am I missing the rest of this series. Besides, your mom already included me in the family travel plans.”

“Of course she did.” I manage a small smile, the weight on my shoulders lightening a fraction. “Thank you. ”

She rises on tiptoes to kiss me, brief but tender. “Let’s get out of here. Food, sleep, then regroup.”

“Best fiancée ever,” I murmur against her hair, letting her lead me toward the exit.