Page 71 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Forty-Seven

I can’t breathe.

The crowd around me is deafening, pulsing with collective hope and fear. Patricia clutches my arm so tightly I’ll have bruises tomorrow, her anxiety radiating in waves. Robert stands rigid beside her, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving the ice where his son is about to risk everything.

The players emerge from the tunnel to a thunderous applause, and my heart lodges somewhere in my throat as I search for Chase among the identical helmets and jerseys. Number nine. Always number nine.

There.

Skating onto the ice with the familiar smooth stride that doesn’t quite mask the subtle compensation pattern only someone with my training would notice.

To everyone else, he looks normal. Ready.

But I see the slight hesitation on his left leg, the fractional weight shift that speaks volumes about the pain he’s hiding.

“He’ll be okay,” Patricia says, though whether she’s reassuring me or herself isn’t clear. “He’s always been strong. ”

I nod, not trusting my voice. Strength has nothing to do with connective tissue damage. No amount of mental toughness prevents a completely torn meniscus.

The starting lineups are announced, and my stomach drops when I hear Chase’s name. Coach Barrett is starting him despite everything. Despite knowing the condition of that knee.

But of course he is. Game five. Stanley Cup on the line.

The anthem passes in a blur, my eyes fixed on Chase standing at the blue line, weight subtly shifted to his right leg. He touches his chest twice after it ends—our signal.

I’m okay. I love you. Don’t worry.

Too late for that last part.

The puck drops, and the game begins. The Storm comes out desperate, physical, clearly intent on forcing a game six back in Seattle. The Bears match their intensity, every player elevated by the knowledge of what’s at stake.

Chase’s first shift is promising—a solid forecheck, a scoring chance that just misses. He’s moving well, the pregame injection clearly doing its job. I allow myself a small breath of relief that doesn’t last beyond his return to the bench, where I catch the grimace he tries to hide as he sits.

The first period continues in a defensive battle, neither team willing to make the mistake that might cost them the game. Chase takes regular shifts but shorter than usual, Coach Barrett managing his ice time carefully.

The period ends scoreless. I check my phone and find a text from Jackson.

Jackson: Mitchell’s knee looks bad. Tell the medical staff to adjust the tape job.

My brother, noticing from TV what most people in the arena haven’t seen. I text back quickly.

Me: They’re doing what they can. How’s it look otherwise?

Jackson: Bears are weathering the early pressure well. Storm will tire in the second. This is where Mitchell needs to capitalize if he can still move.

The second period begins with renewed energy. Five minutes in, the Storm breaks through on a power play, a seeing-eye shot that finds its way through traffic and past our goalie.

1-0 Storm.

The arena deflates momentarily before rallying, but the tension has shifted. Now the Bears must push, must take more chances.

Chase’s line jumps over the boards, and I find myself holding my breath as he carries the puck through the neutral zone, defenders converging. He makes a quick cut to avoid a check and stumbles, just slightly, left leg momentarily buckling before he recovers and dishes the puck to Donovan.

“Did you see that?” I whisper to Patricia, unable to contain my concern.

She nods, face tight with worry. “The knee?”

“It’s giving out,” I confirm. “The medication is wearing off earlier than they expected.”

The shift ends without incident, but when Chase returns to the bench, Dr. Reynolds is immediately beside him, a brief consultation that results in Chase disappearing down the tunnel toward the locker room.

Second injection. They’re risking a second injection before the third period even begins.

Chase returns five minutes later, just as the Bears gain a power play. He steps onto the ice, moving more fluidly again—clear evidence of fresh medication numbing the pain.

The power play works with a perfect cross-ice pass from Chase to Miller, who buries it in the top corner.

1-1. Tie game.

The arena erupts, fans on their feet. Chase celebrates with teammates before returning to the bench, and I catch the genuine smile that breaks through.

For just that moment, watching him in his element, doing what he loves at the highest level, I understand why he’s risking everything. This game, this team, this chance at a championship—it’s what he’s worked for his entire life.

How could anyone walk away from that, even with a damaged knee?

The understanding doesn’t ease my medical concerns, but it softens them. This isn’t just reckless athletic machismo. This is Chase fighting for something that defines him.

The second period ends with the teams still tied 1-1. Twenty minutes remain in regulation. Twenty minutes that might determine the championship, that might define Chase’s career.

“How bad do you think it is?” Patricia asks quietly as the ice is resurfaced between periods. “The knee.”

I hesitate, but she deserves the truth.

“Bad,” I admit. “The medication is wearing off faster than it should, which means the inflammation is increasing despite treatment. He’ll need surgery immediately, regardless of tonight’s outcome. Eight to twelve weeks recovery, minimum.”

She absorbs this with a mother’s stoicism, nodding slowly. “But no permanent damage? He’ll recover fully?”

“That depends on what happens in the next twenty minutes,” I say carefully. “If he makes it through without further injury, the prognosis is good. But every minute on that knee increases the risk of complications.”

“He’d never forgive himself for sitting out,” Robert interjects. “Not this game. Not with everything on the line.”

“I know,” I acknowledge. “That’s why I didn’t fight him on it.”

“You’re not just a physical therapist anymore,” Patricia reminds me gently, covering my hand with hers. “You’re the woman who loves him. Who understands what this means to him.”

The simple statement brings unexpected tears to my eyes. She’s right. My role in Chase’s life has evolved beyond professional boundaries. I understand him—both the professional athlete driven to compete at all costs and the man who wants a future with me .

The teams come back for the third period, and the tension becomes even more intense. This is it. Twenty minutes to see if the Bears lift the Stanley Cup tonight.

Chase is skating better now—smoother strides, more confidence. The medication must be working again. He generates a scoring chance immediately, a shot that rings off the post and has the entire arena groaning in unison.

Five minutes into the period, the intensity increases as both teams recognize the dwindling clock. Hits are harder, risks greater. Chase takes a hard check along the boards, bouncing off awkwardly, and my heart stops until he pushes himself back to his feet.

The next shift brings the moment I’ve been dreading. Chase battles for position in front of the Storm’s net, gets tangled with a defender, and goes down hard—landing directly on his left knee.

The sound that escapes me is involuntary, a gasp of horror. Robert’s hand finds my shoulder, steadying me as we both watch Chase struggle to his feet, face contorted in pain he can no longer hide.

But he stays on the ice. Of course he stays on the ice. Third period of a tied game.

The shift ends, and Chase limps visibly as he returns to the bench, immediately surrounded by medical staff. Dr. Reynolds examines him briefly before shaking his head.

No more injections.

Whatever happens now, Chase faces it with the damage fully felt.

“He needs to come out,” I say. “That fall probably compromised his joint stability. He’s at serious risk now.”

“He won’t,” Robert responds simply. “Look at his face.”

I follow his gaze to the bench, where Chase sits in obvious pain. Coach Barrett speaks to him briefly, probably offering the option to sit out, but Chase shakes his head.

With five minutes left, his line takes the ice again, his stride now unmistakably hampered, the pain evident in every movement. But then—a turnover at center ice, Donovan gaining possession, finding Chase with a perfect pass as he enters the offensive zone.

One defender to beat. The goalie squared to the shooter.

Chase cuts to his right—away from the injured knee—and somehow maintains balance as the defender commits to the outside. One quick shift back to the middle, opening the shooting lane, and Chase fires at the top corner, over the goalie’s glove.

Goal. 2-1 Bears with 4:38 remaining.

The arena erupts, fans on their feet, the noise a physical presence. Chase’s celebration is subdued by his standards—arms raised, teammates converging, but no dramatic slide on the injured knee.

“That’s my boy!” Robert shouts, punching the air. “That’s how you do it!”

I’m caught between exhilaration and terror. Thrilled for Chase, for the team, for the goal that might win them the championship, but horrified at the continued strain on his knee.

The final minutes are excruciating. The Storm presses desperately for the equalizer, pulling their goalie for an extra attacker with ninety seconds remaining. The Bears defend frantically, blocking shots, clearing the zone.

Chase remains on the bench for most of this defensive stand, Coach Barrett wisely deploying other players. But with thirty seconds left, after an icing call forces a defensive-zone faceoff for the Bears, Chase steps over the boards one final time.

“Why is he out there?” I demand of no one in particular, panic rising. “They have the lead! He shouldn’t risk it!”

“Faceoff specialist,” Robert explains tersely. “Best left-handed draw man on the team. They need possession here.”