Page 67 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Forty-Five

“ W ait—lake house? Chase has a lake house?” Maya’s voice rises with excitement through the phone. “How did I not know this?”

“It’s about twenty minutes outside Pinewood, on Lake Evergreen. Modern but rustic, with this amazing deck overlooking the water.”

“Oh my god, we are SO having it there! Lakeside ceremony at sunset, reception on the deck, string lights everywhere… Emma, this is meant to be!”

I’m sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed in Seattle, laptop open to a Pinterest board I never thought I’d create. Wedding dresses. Flower arrangements. It’s surreal—planning a wedding while in the middle of the Stanley Cup Finals.

“Summer at the lake house,” Maya repeats. “That gives us what… eight weeks? Nine?”

“Yeah, give or take.”

“You realize that’s insane, right? Most people take at least a year to plan a wedding.”

“We’re not most people.” I scroll through dress options, clicking on a simple A-line with minimal lace. “Besides, why wait? Between his hockey schedule and my new position with the Wolves, summer is our best window.”

The truth is, I can’t explain the urgency even to myself. It’s just once I decided I wanted to marry Chase Mitchell, I didn’t want to waste any more time.

“Fair enough. The lake house location actually simplifies things—instant venue, built-in scenery. How many people are you thinking?”

I think about it, mentally going through our combined circles. “Small. Family, close friends, teammates. Maybe fifty people total?”

“Workable. What about colors? Theme?”

“Light greens, maybe some baby pink accents, and lots of white. Something elegant but not overly formal.”

The hotel room door opens before she can reply, Chase returning from his morning skate. He looks tired but relaxed, hair still damp from a shower.

“Maya,” I explain, pointing to the phone. “Wedding stuff.”

He raises an eyebrow, crossing to press a kiss to my forehead. “Already?”

“She doesn’t waste time,” I tell him, putting the call on speaker. “Maya, Chase is here.”

“Perfect! Chase, I need your lake house contact info—caretaker, property manager, whoever handles the place. Also, any restrictions on vendors, parking limitations, that sort of thing.”

Chase blinks, clearly unprepared for the barrage of questions. “Uh, I can email you the caretaker’s info. Guy named Frank Dobson. No real restrictions that I know of, though we’ll need to rent portable bathrooms since the house only has three.”

“Already on my list. Any strong opinions about food, drinks, music?”

He glances at me. “Not really. Whatever makes Emma happy.”

“Dangerous words,” I warn him. “I could go full bridezilla now.”

“I trust you.” He shrugs, the simple statement warming me. “Just nothing too loud. ”

Maya laughs through the speaker. “Noted. How about late July? Last weekend? Gives you a honeymoon buffer before training camp starts.”

Chase and I exchange glances, having a silent conversation. We both nod.

“July 26th,” I confirm. “If you can make it work.”

“Consider it done. Now, Emma, I’ll email you some dress options. Chase, stay out of that email if you’re superstitious about seeing the dress beforehand.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees solemnly, though his hand is creeping up my thigh in a decidedly un-solemn manner.

“I’ll let you two go. Game four tonight, right? Good luck! Call me tomorrow with any thoughts on those dress links.”

“Thanks, Maya. For everything.” My voice hitches as Chase’s hand slides higher.

The call ends, and I turn to Chase with narrowed eyes. “Behave yourself.”

“I did,” he protests innocently. “Didn’t make a sound.”

“Your hands weren’t behaving.” But I’m already melting as he leans in, lips brushing my neck. “We have a game in seven hours.”

“Plenty of time,” he argues, hand now fully under my shirt. “Pre-game nap doesn’t start until two.”

“Ever think maybe you should actually nap during your nap time?”

“Sleep is overrated.” He pulls back to look at me. “Emma Anderson, soon-to-be Mitchell, will you please let me make love to my fiancée before I have to go play one of the biggest games of my career?”

Put like that, how can I refuse?

I lie curled against his side afterward, listening to his heartbeat .

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“How insane this all is,” I admit. “A year ago, I was finishing my PT program, swearing I’d never date another hockey player after Tyler, terrified of even stepping near the ice. Now I’m engaged to you, working for the Wolves, and sitting in a hotel room in Seattle during the Stanley Cup Finals.”

“Life’s funny that way.” His hand stills on my back. “Any regrets?”

I prop myself up to look at him properly, not liking the hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Not a single one. You?”

“Only that I didn’t find you sooner.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Remember that party?”

I feel my cheeks flush at the memory. “How could I forget?”

His eyes darken. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that night. I can’t believe you blew off my texts.”

I laugh softly. “Yeah, ‘Emma, it’s Chase.’ Very smooth.”

He winces. “You remember the exact message? Ouch.”

“Hard to forget. It was very… to the point.” I raise an eyebrow. “Not exactly Romeo-level romance.”

“I was nervous! Do you know how intimidating you are?”

“Me? Intimidating? To NHL superstar Chase Mitchell?”

“Absolutely.” His face turns serious. “You were different. Special. I just couldn’t figure out how to approach you properly.”

“Maybe we weren’t ready then,” I suggest, leaning into his touch. “Maybe we needed all that other stuff—the fake dating, the breakup, the professional distance—to get here.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I should have tried a better opening line.”

“That too,” I agree, earning a pinch to my side that makes me squeal.

I spend the rest of the afternoon with Chase’s parents, who’ve adopted me into their game-day routine with surprising ease. Pre-game meal at the hotel restaurant. Walk around the city to burn off nervous energy. Back to the hotel to change into game clothes—Bears jerseys for all of us now.

“Nervous?” Patricia asks as we ride to the arena .

“Terrified,” I admit, twisting the ring around my finger. “These games… they’re brutal to watch.”

“Tell me about it,” she sighs. “I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, and it never gets easier.”

The arena is hostile territory when we arrive, nothing but gold and purple with small pockets of Bears blue scattered throughout. I’ve barely taken my seat when my phone buzzes with a text.

Jackson: Watching tonight. Tell Mitchell to keep his head up in the neutral zone. Storm’s D is targeting him.

I smile at my brother’s grudging support, typing back.

Me: How’s the off-season training?

Jackson: Brutal. Focused on getting stronger for next year. Bears won’t have it so easy.

I slide my phone into my pocket just as the teams take the ice for warmups, and my attention immediately focuses on Chase, moving with the fluid grace that still makes my breath catch. He looks good, confident, no signs of tension as he goes through his routine.

But then I notice something—a slight hitch in his stride when he pushes off his left leg. The knee that caused so much trouble earlier in the season.

The knee I spent ages rehabilitating.

“Is he limping?” I ask, leaning forward in my seat.

Robert follows my gaze. “Don’t think so. Looks normal to me.”

But I know that body better than anyone. There’s a slight compensation pattern in his skating, a barely perceptible change in his weight distribution. As a PT, I’d recognize it anywhere.

When he circles the ice near our section, I study him more intently. His face reveals nothing, the mask of a professional athlete hiding any discomfort. But I know something’s wrong with the knee again.

The game starts at a frenetic pace, both teams understanding the stakes. Chase’s first shift seems normal—fast, physical, creating a scoring chance. But when he returns to the bench, I catch the grimace as he sits, the subtle stretch of his left leg when he thinks no one’s watching .

By the second period, it’s more noticeable, at least to my trained eye. He’s still playing brilliantly, setting up the Bears’ first goal with a perfect pass to Donovan, but the compensation pattern is increasingly evident.

“Something’s wrong with his knee,” I whisper to Patricia during intermission. “He’s hiding it, but I can see it.”

Her expression tightens. “Are you sure? He hasn’t mentioned anything.”

“He wouldn’t,” I say, frustration building. “Not during the Finals. But I know that knee, and something’s definitely off.”

The third period confirms my suspicions. Chase’s ice time decreases slightly, Coach Barrett sheltering him from certain matchups. With five minutes left, he intercepts a clearing attempt at the blue line, dangles past one defender, then threads a perfect pass to Donovan for the go-ahead goal.

The final minutes are agony, the Storm pressing for the equalizer. Chase blocks a shot with his left leg in the final minute, dropping to the ice momentarily before scrambling to his feet, clearly in pain but refusing to leave.

Final horn. Bears win 2-0. Series lead 3-1, heading back to Pinewood with a chance to win the Cup.

Unlike after previous games, he doesn’t come find me immediately. A text explains it.

Chase: Treatment with med staff. Meet you at the hotel. I love you.

Back at the hotel, I pace the room, waiting for Chase to return. When he finally appears, nearly two hours after the game, the set of his jaw tells me everything I need to know.

“How bad is it?” I ask as he closes the door behind him .

He doesn’t bother denying or deflecting. “Bone bruise. Maybe a minor meniscus tear. Nothing structural.”

“Bullshit,” I state flatly, crossing my arms. “Your meniscus was compromised from the previous injury. Any tear, no matter how ‘minor,’ is serious. Let me see.”