Page 69 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Forty-Six

M y left knee is on fire.

There’s no other way to describe the sensation, a white-hot burning that radiates from joint to thigh, constant and unrelenting despite the ice pack Dr. Reynolds presses against it.

“This isn’t good, Mitchell,” he says, probing at the swelling. “MRI shows the meniscus tear has progressed since Seattle. There’s also increased bone bruising and fluid accumulation.”

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to remain still under his examination. “Just tell me if I can play tomorrow.”

“Can you? Technically, yes.” He sits back on his stool, expression grim. “Should you? Absolutely not. You’re risking permanent damage, Chase. The kind that ends careers.”

“But it’s not structural,” I press, needing the confirmation. “ACL, MCL, those are intact, right?”

He sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Yes, major ligaments are still intact. For now. But the meniscus is crucial for long-term knee health. Continue playing on it like this, and you’re looking at degenerative issues. Chronic pain. Possibly early retirement. ”

The words hang heavy in the treatment room. Early retirement. At twenty-six. With a fiancée, a future family to support, a life barely beginning to take shape.

“What are my options?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “For tomorrow night.”

Dr. Reynolds gives me a long look, clearly torn between medical ethics and the reality of professional sports. “Pain management is the only realistic option. We can do a cortisone injection to reduce inflammation, combined with local anesthetic to dull the pain temporarily.”

“Will that work?”

“For a little bit, yes.” He doesn’t sugar-coat it. “But understand what you’re doing, Chase. You’re borrowing time. Every minute you play is damage you’ll pay for later.”

I nod, having expected nothing less. “After the game, what then? Surgery?”

“Almost certainly. Arthroscopic repair of the meniscus, minimum six weeks recovery before you can resume training. Possibly longer depending on what we find in there.”

Six weeks. That would impact wedding plans, honeymoon, any training. But we’d make it work. Emma would understand. She always does.

“I need to discuss this with Emma,” I tell Dr. Reynolds, reaching for my sweatpants. “But I think we both know I’m playing tomorrow night.”

He nods, resignation clear. “Just be careful out there, Mitchell. Smart decisions on the ice. No heroics.”

The pain intensifies as I stand, a sharp reminder of the damage with every step. I’ve been hiding the severity from teammates, from media, from everyone except Emma and the medical staff.

One more game. Just one more game, and then I can give it the rest it needs.

When I get home, Emma’s in the kitchen, phone wedged between ear and shoulder as she stirs something on the stove. Wedding planning, based on the snippets of conversation I catch .

“No, Maya, definitely no black. We agreed on baby pink, white, and light green…” She spots me and her expression shifts instantly, concern replacing wedding-planning frustration. “I’ll call you back,” she tells Maya, ending the call without waiting for a response.

She sets the phone aside and turns fully toward me, eyes narrowing as she takes me in. Her gaze lingers on my face, scanning for damage.

“How bad?” she asks, abandoning the stove to cross to me.

“About what we expected,” I say, aiming for casual despite the throbbing. “Cortisone before the game should get me through.”

Her professional mask slips into place—the physical therapist rather than the fiancée—as she helps me to the couch, arranging pillows to elevate my leg.

“What exactly did Dr. Reynolds say?” she presses, hands gentle but thorough as they examine the swelling. “I want the medical version, not the athlete’s interpretation.”

I sigh. “Meniscus tear has progressed. More bone bruising, more fluid. No structural ligament damage yet, but high risk of further injury if I play.”

She nods, expression tightening but not showing surprise. “And after the game? What’s the treatment plan?”

“Surgery. Arthroscopic repair, six weeks recovery minimum.”

“At least,” she corrects, medical knowledge asserting itself. “Meniscus repairs often take eight to twelve weeks for full recovery, especially with pre-existing damage.”

The timeline sends a jolt of anxiety through me. “That long? What about the wedding? The honeymoon?”

Her expression softens, hands stilling on my leg. “The wedding is seven weeks away. You’ll be walking by then, maybe not running or skating, but definitely walking.”

Relief washes through me. “As long as I can stand at the altar with you, the rest doesn’t matter. ”

She smiles, though worry still lingers in her eyes. “Sweet talker. Now, what about tomorrow? What’s the plan for getting you through the game?”

I explain Dr. Reynolds’ suggestion. Cortisone and local anesthetic, aggressive taping, minimal morning skate participation.

“It’ll work,” I conclude, with more confidence than I feel. “For one game, it’ll hold.”

Emma is quiet for a long moment, her hands still resting lightly on my knee. Finally, she asks the question I’ve been dreading:

“Is it worth it, Chase? Really worth it? The Cup at the potential cost of your future mobility, your career?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications beyond tomorrow’s game. This isn’t just about hockey anymore. It’s about our future, our family, the life we’re building together.

“I don’t know,” I admit. It’s the most honest answer I can give. “But I do know I’d regret not trying more than I’d regret any consequences. This team, this opportunity… it might never come again. I have to see it through.”

She nods slowly, not agreeing but understanding. It’s one of the things I love most about her, this ability to separate her professional concerns from her personal support, to worry about my health while respecting my choices.

“Then we’ll get you through it,” she states simply. “I’ll call Dr. Reynolds, make sure he can be there for the game, and talk to your team’s therapy staff. There are ways to make the cortisone work better, keep the strain down while you’re playing.”

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I reach for her hand, needing the connection.

“Not in the last few hours. But I’ll accept it as payment for my professional services.”

“Professional and personal services,” I correct, tugging her closer. “Best of both worlds. ”

She allows herself to be pulled down beside me, careful not to jostle my leg. “You’re an idiot, you know that? Playing through this kind of injury.”

“Your idiot,” I remind her, kissing her temple. “Contractually obligated to put up with me for life once you say ‘I do.’”

“I’m scared, Chase. Not about the game. About what happens if this goes wrong.”

The vulnerability in her voice twists something in my chest. “It won’t. One game. Three periods, maybe overtime. Then it’s surgery, recovery, and focusing on our wedding.”

She nods against my shoulder, but I feel the tension in her body, the worry she’s trying to contain for my sake.

“I’m going to get you some ice,” she says, extracting herself from my side. “And then we’re going to elevate this properly, with compression. If you’re determined to destroy your knee tomorrow, the least we can do is get the swelling down before you do it.”

Morning brings brightness, sunlight streaming through windows we forgot to close. I wake before Emma, consciousness returning with the same realization: Game day. Stanley Cup Final. Game Five.

Today we could be champions.

The thought should bring excitement, the culmination of a lifelong dream within reach. Instead, it’s tempered by the dull throb in my knee, the heaviness of knowing what lies ahead.

Emma stirs beside me, green eyes blinking open slowly. “What time is it?” she mumbles.

“Just after six,” I tell her, brushing hair from her face. “Go back to sleep. I need to head to the facility soon.”

She sits up immediately. “How’s the knee?”

“About the same,” I lie, not wanting to admit it feels worse this morning, stiffer and more painful than yesterday. “Manageable.”

Her eyes narrow. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Six,” I admit, knowing better than to attempt further minimizing.

“So eight, in Chase Mitchell terms,” she translates, already reaching for her phone. “I’m calling Dr. Reynolds to make sure he can get to the game on time for you.”

I don’t argue, watching as she switches into professional mode, arranging for early treatment before the team’s morning skate.

“They’re expecting you at seven,” she reports after ending the call. “Full treatment protocol before the team meeting, limited participation in morning skate, then rest until pre-game.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I agree, earning a playful swat to my arm.

“And promise me something?”

“Anything,” I say automatically.

“Be honest with me today. About the pain, about how it feels on the ice, about everything. I need to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

The request is reasonable, necessary even. But it’s harder than it should be to agree. Athletes, hockey players especially, are conditioned to downplay pain, to push through, to never show weakness.

“I promise,” I tell her anyway, meaning it despite the difficulty. “Full disclosure today.”

The pre-game hours pass in a blur of treatment, team meetings and careful preparation. Coach Barrett keeps me out of most drills during morning skate, just enough time on the ice to test the knee with the first round of medication.

It’s bad. Worse than I let anyone see, even Emma who watches from the bench with concerned eyes. Every pivot sends jagged pain through the joint. Every quick stop threatens to buckle the leg entirely.

“It’s not working,” Emma observes quietly when I return to the bench. “The first treatment. It’s not enough. ”

“It will be,” I insist, though uncertainty gnaws at my confidence. “The pre-game injection will be stronger.”

She doesn’t argue, but her expression speaks volumes.