Page 68 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

He sighs but sits on the bed, rolling up his pant leg to reveal the knee, already swollen, an angry red line where fresh scar tissue meets older damage.

My heart sinks as I kneel before him, hands automatically going to the joint. The swelling is significant, the joint warm to the touch. When I gently test the range of motion, Chase can’t fully extend or flex without pain.

“This isn’t nothing, Chase. This needs aggressive treatment, possibly an MRI to rule out further damage.”

“Already had the MRI,” he admits, wincing as I probe a tender spot. “After game three. It’s just a bone bruise and minor meniscus fraying. Nothing that can’t wait until after the Finals.”

Anger flares, hot and sudden. “You’ve been hiding this for days? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d react exactly like this,” he counters, frustration evident. “It’s the Stanley Cup Finals, Emma. One game away from a championship. There isn’t a player in the league who’d sit out with this kind of injury.”

“I’m not asking you to sit out. I’m asking for honesty. I’m your fiancée, Chase. And a physical therapist. If anyone would understand the balance between competitive drive and medical caution, it’s me.”

He has the grace to look ashamed. “You’re right. I should have told you. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

“So instead you let me find out by watching the game? Do you have any idea how that felt? Seeing you in pain and knowing you were hiding it? ”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “Really. I trust you more than anyone. Me not telling you was about not wanting to put that burden on you.”

“That’s not how partnerships work,” I remind him. “We carry each other’s burdens. That’s the whole point.”

He nods, reaching for my hand. “You’re right. No more secrets, medical or otherwise. I promise.”

I let him pull me closer, the anger receding. “What’s the treatment plan?”

“Aggressive anti-inflammatories, ice, compression between now and the next game. Possible cortisone injection pre-game, depending on swelling.”

The PT in me cringes at the mention of cortisone—a short-term solution that often creates longer-term problems. But I understand the stakes.

“Let me help. My therapy techniques will be more effective than just ice and compression.”

Relief softens his features. “I was hoping you’d offer. The team PT is good, but you’re…”

“The best?” I suggest with a small smile.

“Exactly.” He pulls me into a kiss. “And conveniently engaged to me, which means you have a vested interest in making sure I can still walk at our wedding.”

As we lie in bed later that evening, scrolling through Maya’s latest wedding venue photos of the lake house, I find myself sighing wistfully.

“I miss him.”

He looks up from his phone, confused. “Him? Who? ”

I give him a look, sighing more dramatically. “Max. I miss Max.”

His confused expression dissolves into laughter. “You miss my cat? Seriously?”

“Don’t laugh!” I protest, feeling my cheeks warm. “He’s a good cat. We bonded.”

Chase is full-on laughing now, shoulders shaking.

“We connected on a spiritual level. He slept on my lap the entire time we watched that movie.”

“He’s fine, believe me,” Chase manages, still chuckling. “He’s living his best life with my neighbor. Dude has like two other cats and they all love each other.”

“I doubt that,” I counter, giving him a meaningful look. “But I’m glad he’s got friends. I was worried he’d be lonely.”

He pulls me closer. “Should I be jealous that you’re pining for another male in my house?”

I roll my eyes but snuggle into his side. “Very funny. I just like him, that’s all. He’s got personality.”

“Must be why he likes you too. Both of you are stubborn as hell.”

“He’s going to be at the wedding, right?” I ask, only half-joking. “He should be there.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You want my cat… at our wedding?”

“Why not?”

“Emma Anderson, you continue to surprise me,” he marvels, shaking his head. “But yes, if you want him at our wedding, he’ll be at our wedding. Maybe we can even get him a little bowtie.”

“Now you’re talking. He’d look very distinguished.”

Later, after Chase falls asleep, his knee propped on a pillow, I lie awake staring at the ceiling. Everything we’ve fought for comes down to one game. One night on the ice in Pinewood, with Chase playing through an injury that would sideline most players for weeks.

I reach for my phone in the darkness, typing a message to the one person who might understand my conflicted feelings .

Me: Jackson, you up?

Jackson: What’s wrong?

Me: Chase’s knee is bad. Meniscus involvement, significant swelling. He’s playing through it for the next game.

Jackson: Not surprised. Championship on the line, of course he’s playing. Question is, can you handle watching him?

Can I watch the man I love potentially sacrifice his long-term health for a trophy? Can I support his choice while knowing the medical risks better than most?

Me: I don’t know. Professional side of me is screaming about long-term damage. Fiancée side understands why he has to play.

Jackson: Welcome to being with an athlete. We’re not known for making medically sound decisions when championships are involved.

Jackson: For what it’s worth, Mitchell seems like the type to have considered all angles before deciding. He’s not just being reckless. And he’s got you to help with proper rehab afterward.

Me: When did you become president of the Chase Mitchell fan club?

Jackson: A while ago. Now stop talking and get some sleep, Em. Whatever happens, you two will handle it together.

I set the phone aside, turning to look at Chase. He looks younger somehow, the competitive intensity softened in sleep.

Game five. One more win for the Cup. Hopefully one more game before we can focus fully on healing, on wedding plans, on building our future together.

I curl closer to him, careful not to disturb his injured leg, drawing comfort from his steady breathing. Whatever comes next, whether it’s the championship or heartbreak, quick recovery or complicated rehabilitation—we’ll face it together.

Partners, on and off the ice.