Page 72 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase wins easily and skates back to the net. The Storm defenseman winds up for a slap shot from the point, and Chase does what hockey players have always done.

He drops to one knee to block it.

His left knee .

The puck rockets toward him and strikes him directly on the already-damaged joint. The impact folds him completely, driving him to the ice in obvious agony.

“No!” The cry escapes me involuntarily, hands flying to my mouth as Chase writhes on the ice, teammates converging to protect him.

The horn sounds. Game over. Bears win 2-1.

Stanley Cup Champions.

The arena explodes in celebration, blue confetti dropping from the rafters, but my attention remains fixed on Chase, who’s now being helped to his feet by teammates, clearly unable to put weight on his left leg.

“I need to get down there,” I say, already moving toward the aisle. “His knee—”

“Go.” Robert nods, understanding immediately.

I push through celebrating fans, flashing my staff credential to access restricted areas, taking stairs two at a time.

On the ice, chaos reigns. Players embracing, media conducting impromptu interviews, the Stanley Cup itself being prepared for presentation.

I scan frantically for number nine, finally spotting Chase at center ice, being supported by his teammates.

Our gazes lock across the crowded ice, and something passes between us—understanding, love, the complex mixture of emotions this moment needs.

I hesitate, one foot on the ice, the familiar panic rising as it always does when facing the surface that once shattered my dreams. But this time, something shifts inside me. All the work Chase and I have done together, facing my fear one careful step at a time, comes to fruition in this moment.

The fear of what happened won’t define me anymore.

Not now, not when he needs me.

I step onto the slick surface, moving carefully but without the paralyzing terror that’s controlled my relationship with ice since my accident. It’s just a surface, not my enemy .

One step, then another, then I’m crossing the blue line, navigating through celebrating players and staff toward the man who’s changed everything in my life.

“Emma,” he breathes when I reach him. “We did it. We fucking did it.”

“ You did it,” I correct, automatically assessing his condition. His weight is entirely off his left leg, face pale and sweating, hands trembling slightly. “But at what cost, Chase? That knee…”

“Worth it,” he interrupts, reaching for me with his free arm while Miller continues supporting his other side. “Every second of pain. Completely worth it.”

I want to argue, to invoke my medical training, to point out the potential long-term consequences. But the joy in his eyes stops me.

“I’m so proud of you. But you’re going to the hospital. Right now.”

“After,” Chase insists, gesturing toward where the Cup is being prepared for presentation. “I need to lift it first. Just… help me stay upright for that.”

I should refuse. Should insist on immediate medical attention. But I understand what this means, how this moment defines his entire career.

“Five minutes,” I concede, positioning myself to take as much weight as possible off his injured leg. “Then straight to the hospital. No arguments.”

“Deal,” he agrees, eyes already fixed on the gleaming silver trophy.

The Cup presentation begins with formalities. When Coach Barrett is announced, accepting the trophy first as is tradition, the crowd’s roar is deafening.

Coach Barrett lifts the Cup above his head, then turns to hand it to the team captain, Donovan, who promptly skates to Chase.

“Mitchell!” he shouts over the noise. “This one’s because of you. Take it.”

Chase looks momentarily stunned before reaching out with shaking hands to accept it .

I step back just enough to allow him this moment alone, to lift hockey’s ultimate prize above his head despite the agony he must be in. The crowd noise increases as Chase raises the Cup high, his face transformed by pure joy that transcends physical pain.

One perfect moment.

Then his knee finally gives out completely.

I’m there instantly, catching him alongside Donovan as he crumples, the Cup hastily transferred to another player. Chase’s face contorts with pain he can no longer mask.

“Hospital,” I say firmly, no room for argument now. “Right now, Chase.”

“Fine,” he gasps. “Just needed… that moment.”

Medical staff converge quickly, a stretcher produced from the sidelines. As they prepare to transport him, Chase reaches for me, his grip surprisingly strong despite everything.

“Stay with me?” he asks, vulnerability replacing the competitive mask he’s worn all night.

“Always,” I promise, squeezing his hand. “Through everything, remember?”

At the hospital, Dr. Reynolds delivers the diagnosis—expanded meniscus tear, additional cartilage damage from the puck impact, minor fracture to the tibial plateau, significant fluid build-up and soft tissue trauma.

His recovery timeline has extended to four months before he can skate, six to eight months for competitive athletics.

Our wedding is less than two months away. Chase will be in active recovery, possibly on crutches .

When the team arrives later, Cup in tow, Chase wakes to hold it again—this time from his hospital bed, surrounded by teammates, coaches, and family.

“Picture,” someone calls, and suddenly I’m being pulled into the frame, positioned beside Chase as he holds the Cup with one arm and wraps the other around my shoulders.

“Perfect,” the team photographer declares. “The hero and his biggest supporter.”

I start to correct him—I’m more than just support, more than just the girlfriend-now-fiancée smiling beside the athlete. But then Chase’s arm tightens around me, his lips brushing my temple, and I understand the deeper truth.

We support each other. Through championships and injuries, through professional triumphs and medical setbacks.

“You good?” Chase whispers as the Cup moves to another player’s hands.

“I’m good,” I confirm. “We’re good. Together.”

His smile tells me everything I need to know about the path ahead. Complicated but worthwhile. Challenging but manageable.