Page 66 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chas e

Chapter Forty-Four

T he next morning brings a new set of challenges.

Media coverage of our loss is plastered across every sports site, and the headlines are brutal: “Mitchell Falters Under Pressure After Storybook Proposal.” The narrative couldn’t be clearer—I was distracted, unfocused, more concerned with my personal life than the championship.

It’s complete bullshit, but it stings.

“Ignore it,” Emma advises, emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She crosses the room and closes my laptop with a decisive click. “You know it’s garbage.”

“Doesn’t make it easier to read.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. “They’re acting like because I proposed, it distracted me from the game.”

“Since when do you care what the media thinks?” She sits beside me on the hotel bed, taking my hand.

She’s right, of course. But as we board the team plane to Seattle later that day, I can feel the shift in pressure—both external and self-imposed. We’ve let home ice advantage slip away.

My phone buzzes with a text as we land. I’m surprised to see Tyler’s name .

Tyler: Watched game two from my hospital room. Storm’s forecheck is exploitable if you chip and chase more. Their D can’t handle sustained pressure below the goal line. Win the next game and the momentum is yours again.

I stare at the message, oddly touched by his analysis. Despite everything—his injury, our complicated history—he’s still watching, still invested in the team’s success.

Me: Thanks, man. How’s recovery going?

Tyler: Surgery went well. Long road ahead, but doctors say comeback is possible with the right rehab. One day at a time.

Me: That’s great news. Keep me posted.

Tyler: Will do. Go get that Cup, Mitchell. For both of us.

I show the exchange to Emma, and she raises an eyebrow. "He’s really changed, hasn’t he?”

“Seems like it. Nothing like a career-threatening injury to adjust your perspective.”

She squeezes my hand. “Speaking from experience?”

“Maybe a little.” I think back to my own knee injury earlier in the season. That had been the catalyst for everything—Emma’s return to my life, our fake relationship that became devastatingly real.

Seattle greets us with unseasonably warm weather and a passionate hockey crowd already decked out in Storm gear around our hotel.

Team meetings fill the afternoon—video review of game two, strategy adjustments.

Tyler’s observations prove accurate; the coaches identify the same weaknesses in the Storm’s defensive coverage.

By evening, my brain’s fried from information and pressure. Emma suggests room service instead of going out.

“You’re quiet,” she observes as we eat. “What’s going on up there?” She taps my forehead gently.

“Just processing. Coach wants to adjust our forecheck for tomorrow. New positioning, different reads. A lot to remember.”

“You’ll handle it. You always do.”

“Wish I had your faith,” I mutter, pushing away my half-eaten food.

Emma studies me for a moment, then sets aside her own meal and moves to straddle my lap, forcing me to look at her. “What’s really bothering you, Chase?”

I sigh, hands automatically settling on her hips. “What if I can’t deliver? What if we lose this series because I don’t perform when it matters most?”

“Then you’ll still be Chase Mitchell, one of the best hockey players in the world,” she says firmly. “With a team that respects you, a family that loves you, and a fiancée who thinks you’re pretty amazing whether you win a trophy or not.”

Her words loosen something tight in my chest. I pull her closer, burying my face in her neck. “I love you, you know that?”

“I had a hint. The engagement ring might have given it away.”

I laugh, the tension draining from my shoulders. “Just a small token of my affection.”

“Do you know what might help you relax before tomorrow’s game?” She shifts, pressing closer in a way that instantly redirects my thoughts.

“I have some ideas,” I murmur, hands sliding under her shirt.

“I bet you do.” She grinds down deliberately, drawing a groan from deep in my throat. “Consider it my contribution to the team’s success.”

“So selfless,” I tease, pulling her shirt over her head.

Her bra follows, and I never get tired of seeing her like this—flushed, needy, straddling me with that look in her eyes that says she wants to be ruined.

I drag my mouth across her chest, tongue circling one nipple before sucking it between my lips.

She arches into me, nails digging into my shoulders.

“Chase,” she gasps, grinding harder. “God, you’re so good at that.”

“I’m just getting started,” I growl, scooping her up and carrying her to the bed.

I peel off her jeans and panties in one motion, baring her completely. She’s already wet, thighs trembling slightly as I settle between her legs.

“Fuck, baby. You’re soaked.”

“For you,” she breathes, parting her legs wider. “Always for you.”

I hook her legs over my shoulders and find her clit with my tongue—hot, swollen, begging for attention. I work her slowly at first, teasing strokes that make her hips jerk, then focus intensely as she moans my name.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps.

The moment she starts to tremble, I slide two fingers inside her pussy, curling them slightly. That’s all it takes; she falls apart fast, her orgasm powerful, wave after wave, as her muscles tighten around me.

I crawl over and kiss her, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She reaches between us, palming me through my sweats.

“I need you inside me,” she whispers. “Right now.”

I yank my pants down and stroke myself once before lining up with her entrance. Her legs wrap around my waist as I slide in, inch by inch, until I’m buried to the hilt.

We both groan.

“You feel so good,” I pant, setting a hard rhythm that has her crying out beneath me.

I pin her wrists above her head, moving deep and rough. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, along with her breathless moans.

“Yours,” she gasps. “All yours.”

“Damn right,” I say, reaching down to touch her. “This pussy’s mine.”

She comes again with a cry that could wake the neighbors, clenching so tight around me it nearly knocks the air from my lungs. The second she starts to come down, I let go, thrusting hard until I’m spilling deep inside her with a groan that’s more of a growl.

We stay tangled together, breathing heavy, completely wrecked.

“Feeling better?” she teases softly, fingers brushing my hair back .

I laugh breathlessly. “You might just be the secret to winning this series.”

“Guess we better do this every night, then.”

“Coach’s orders,” I smirk, kissing her again.

Game day dawns clear and cool, perfect hockey weather. I wake before Emma, slipping out quietly to begin my game-day ritual. The familiar routine grounds me and pushes away lingering doubts.

Emma joins me eventually, moving around the hotel room with comfortable familiarity. She doesn’t demand conversation or push for attention, just exists in the same space, a steady presence that anchors me.

“Nervous?” she asks as game time approaches.

“Terrified,” I admit, adjusting my tie. “It’s like I’m more aware of what’s at stake.”

She appears behind me in the mirror, wrapping her arms around my waist. “You’ve got this. I’ve never seen anyone more prepared, more determined.”

I turn to face her. “It’s not just about the Cup anymore. It’s about us, our future. Winning means financial security, better contract leverage, more options for wherever we decide to live.”

Her expression softens. “Chase, our future isn’t dependent on whether you win or lose this series. We’ll figure it out either way.”

“Logically, I know that. But it feels connected somehow. Like everything good in my life is riding on these next few games.”

She takes my face in her hands. “Listen to me. You could lose every remaining game in this series, and I’d still be wearing this ring. Still planning our future. Still proud of you. Nothing changes that. ”

I lean down to kiss her, pouring all my gratitude into the contact. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Must have been something terrible in a past life,” she quips, lightening the moment. “Cosmic punishment.”

I laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Brat.”

The arena is deafening. Gold and purple everywhere, pulsing with hostile energy. During warmups, I find Emma in the visiting team family section, sitting between my parents. She’s wearing my blue Bears jersey again, a beacon of support amid the Storm’s colors.

The game itself is a battle from the opening faceoff—tight checking, few scoring chances, both teams playing with desperate intensity. The first period ends scoreless.

In the second, we break through on a power play, Donovan deflecting my point shot past their screened goalie. The Storm answer five minutes later on a breakaway, tying the game 1-1 heading into the third.

Twenty minutes to take control of the series. Twenty minutes to prove the game two failure was a fluke.

The Storm score early in the third, a seeing-eye shot through traffic that our goalie never sees. I slam my stick against the boards in frustration.

“It’s not over,” Coach reminds us. “There’s plenty of time.”

I spot Emma in the crowd while I wait for my next shift. She leans forward, fist against her mouth—she’s nervous.

That makes two of us.

Back on the ice, I carry the puck through the neutral zone, see an opening on the right side, and cut hard toward the net. The Storm defenseman steps up to challenge, but I spin off the check, maintaining possession. Their second defenseman commits to me, leaving Donovan open on the far side.

I feather a pass through the crease, textbook tape-to-tape. Donovan one-times it into the open net before their goalie can recover.

Tie game. Nine minutes remaining.

The momentum shifts, our forecheck finding the weaknesses Tyler identified. We trap them in their zone shift after shift, wearing down their defense with sustained pressure below the goal line.

With three minutes left, the opportunity presents itself—a turnover behind their net, the puck sliding right to me as I curl around the goal. Their defenseman is caught flat-footed, their goalie out of position. One quick move to my backhand, and the puck finds the top corner.

3-2 Bears.

The bench erupts, guys leaning over the boards, pounding on the glass. Three minutes to hold the lead. Three minutes that stretch into an eternity as the Storm press for the equalizer.

Final buzzer. Bears win 3-2. Series lead 2-1.

The locker room is loud but controlled—this isn’t over, just one step closer. Coach’s post-game speech emphasizes the work still ahead, but there’s pride in his voice.

“Mitchell,” he calls as I head for the showers. “Good bounce-back game. You did amazing out there.”

The simple praise means more than any media accolade could.

Emma is waiting with my parents when I emerge, her face glowing. She doesn’t rush to me like some of the other players’ girlfriends, maintaining respectful distance in the team space.

But when I reach her, I don’t hesitate to pull her into a hug, lifting her slightly off her feet.

“You were fucking fantastic,” she whispers in my ear. “That pass to Donny. The goal. All of it.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I murmur back. “Not with you watching. ”

My parents offer their congratulations, Dad breaking down the highlights with his usual analytical eye, Mom simply squeezing my arm with maternal pride.

“Dinner?” Dad suggests. “There’s a great steakhouse near the hotel.”

“Rain check?” I ask, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline crash hitting hard. “Think I need sleep more than food right now.”

Back at the hotel, Emma runs a bath while I check my phone. Several texts from teammates celebrating the win. One from Jackson, grudgingly acknowledging my goal. And another from Tyler.

Tyler: Fucking beautiful goal, Mitchell. Told you they couldn’t handle the pressure down low. One step closer.

I smile, typing back a quick thanks before joining Emma in the oversized hotel bathtub, sinking into the hot water with a groan as it soothes my aching muscles.

“Better?” she asks, settling between my legs, her back against my chest.

“Getting there.” I wrap my arms around her, holding her close. “Two more wins.”

“Two more wins,” she echoes, head resting on my shoulder. “Though I might not survive the stress.”

“Dramatic,” I tease, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Says the man who thought the fate of our entire future rested on tonight’s game.” She twists to look at me, eyes challenging. “Still feel that way?”

“No,” I admit. “You were right. This is huge, but it’s not everything.”

She nods, satisfied, turning back to rest against me. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about wedding dates while you’ve been focusing on hockey.”

The change of subject catches me off guard. “Yeah? What were you thinking?”

“Summer,” she says. “Small ceremony, just family and close friends.”

“That soon?” I’m surprised but not opposed. “Don’t these things usually take a year to plan? ”

She shrugs, water rippling around her shoulders. “Maybe for normal people. But we’re not exactly normal, are we? Besides, why wait? Unless you’re having second thoughts…”

“Never,” I say firmly, tightening my arms around her. “As soon as we win the Cup, we’ll start planning.”

“Maya’s already volunteered to handle everything,” she admits with a small laugh. “She’s terrifyingly efficient.”

“Sounds like we’re in good hands.” I nuzzle her neck, inhaling the scent of hotel shampoo and the underlying essence that’s purely Emma. “Mrs. Mitchell.”

“Not yet,” she reminds me, but I can hear the smile in her voice. “A few more wins first, remember?”

“A few more wins,” I agree, the path forward suddenly crystal clear. Win the Cup. Marry Emma. Build our future together, one step at a time.

Nothing else matters.