Page 8 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)
She returns with two pillows and an ice pack she must have found in my freezer. “Lift your leg,” she instructs, arranging the pillows beneath my knee when I comply.
The elevation helps immediately, some of the throbbing subsiding. Emma wraps the ice pack around my knee like she’s done it a hundred times.
“Better?” she asks.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She steps back, surveying her work. “You’ll need to ice it for twenty minutes every two hours while you’re awake. Keep it elevated as much as possible. The medication schedule is in your discharge papers.”
“You going to write that all down for me?”
Emma rolls her eyes. “It’s already written down. All you have to do is read it and follow instructions. Think you can manage that?”
“Doubtful, based on my track record.”
“That’s what I thought.” She crosses her arms. “Which is why I’ve scheduled your first PT session for tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow? I just got injured today.”
“And the sooner we start, the better your chances of a full recovery.” Her tone brooks no argument. “I’ll come here since you shouldn’t be driving.”
The thought of Emma in my house again tomorrow shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. “Whatever you say.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly suspicious of my compliance. Smart woman.
“Do you have food in the house?” she asks, glancing toward the kitchen. “You shouldn’t take your medication on an empty stomach.”
“Probably. I usually order in though.”
She sighs, muttering something that sounds like “of course you do” before disappearing into my kitchen. I hear cupboards opening and closing, the refrigerator door, the clink of dishes.
“Your nutritionist would have a fit if she saw your kitchen,” she calls out. “Don’t you professional athletes have meal plans? ”
“Sure, during the season. Off-season is for pizza and beer.”
“It is the season,” she points out, reappearing with a plate. “I managed to find bread and peanut butter. It’s not ideal, but it’ll line your stomach for the medication.”
I accept the sandwich. “Thanks, Blondie.”
“Stop calling me that. Emma works fine.”
I smirk. “Alright then. Thank you, Emma.”
She looks slightly flustered by my sincerity. “You’re welcome. Now eat your sandwich.”
I oblige, suddenly realizing I’m starving. As I eat, Emma moves around arranging things within my reach. Remote control, phone charger, a glass of water, my medication. It’s strangely domestic, watching her create a recovery station around me.
A low, plaintive meow echoes from the hallway, followed by the soft padding of paws. My black cat Max appears, stretching as he emerges from wherever he’s been hiding.
“Oh,” she says, pausing mid-motion. “You have a cat.”
“Max,” I explain, expecting him to do his usual routine with strangers—hiss, arch his back, and disappear under the nearest piece of furniture. “He’s not exactly social. Don’t take it personally when he—”
But Max, the little traitor, completely ignores me. Instead, he walks straight to Emma and begins weaving around her legs, purring loudly enough to be heard across the room.
“What the hell?” I mutter, staring in disbelief as my antisocial cat rubs against Emma’s shins like they’re long-lost friends.
She crouches down, extending her hand for him to sniff. “Hello, handsome.”
He immediately headbutts her palm, then flops onto his side and starts rolling around at her feet, showing off his belly—something he’s never done with anyone but me.
“I don’t understand,” I say, genuinely confused. “He hates new people. Like, legitimately hides for hours when strangers come over. ”
Emma scratches behind Max’s ears, and he purrs even louder. “Maybe he’s a good judge of character.”
“Or maybe you’re secretly a cat whisperer.” I shake my head in amazement as he actually climbs into Emma’s lap when she sits on the floor. “This isn’t right. I’ve had him for two years, and he’s never warmed up to anyone this fast.”
“Animals can sense things,” she replies, stroking his fur. “Maybe he knows I’m here to help you.”
“Either that or he’s plotting to replace me with you,” I mutter, though I can’t help but smile at the sight of them together.
She laughs, her whole face lighting up. Max seems to approve, purring even more.
“Well, Max. You’re going to have to share me with your human for the next few weeks. Think you can handle that?”
He responds by stretching up to nuzzle her chin, and I swear the little shit is smirking at me.
“Unbelievable,” I say. “My own cat is trying to steal my physical therapist.”
“Maybe he just has better manners than you do,” Emma teases, gently moving him off her lap as she stands. “I should get going. You should rest. The first twenty-four hours after an injury are crucial.”
I nod, not wanting her to leave but unable to think of a legitimate reason to ask her to stay. “What time tomorrow?”
“9 a.m. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I smirk. “Promise. But you might want to stick around just in case I do.”
She pauses at the door, her hand on the handle, a flicker of color rising in her cheeks. She doesn’t look back, but the hint of a smile tugs at her lips. “Call if you need anything. My number’s on the discharge papers.”
“I already have your number,” I remind her with a small smile. “From last year. You might need to unblock me, though.”
“If I blocked you, I probably had a good reason.”
I chuckle. “Harsh. But fair. ”
She exhales lightly. “Fine. Use it if necessary—for medical concerns only.”
With that parting shot, she’s gone, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and the echo of her voice in my otherwise empty house.
Max immediately jumps onto the couch beside me, settling against my good leg with a contented sigh.
“Don’t get too attached,” I warn him. “She’s just my physical therapist.”
He opens one eye and gives me a look that tells me he doesn’t believe me, then goes back to purring.
I sink deeper into the couch, feeling the pain medication finally taking full effect. Six weeks minimum. The start of the season gone.
My phone buzzes again—more teammate messages. I appreciate it, but right now, all I can think about is Emma running onto the ice without hesitation when I went down.
The image is seared into my brain: her blonde hair flying, face determined as she kicked off her heels and vaulted over the boards. It was instinctive—followed by what was clearly a panic attack once the adrenaline wore off.
Why would someone with an obvious fear of ice choose a career working with hockey players? It doesn’t make sense. Just like it doesn’t make sense that after a year of trying to forget about her, she’s suddenly back in my life, holding the key to my recovery.
I remember the terror in her eyes as she stood on the ice after the medical team arrived. The way her friend had to practically carry her back to solid ground. There’s a story there, one I intend to uncover during our many sessions together.
Because if I’m going to be sidelined for six weeks, I might as well solve the mystery that is Emma Anderson. Figure out why she blocked my number after our encounter last year. Discover what happened to make her fear the very surface her clients perform on.
And maybe, just maybe, see if that chemistry between us was as real as I remember.
I reach for my phone, scrolling to the calendar app. October 5th. Just three days before the season opener against the Wolves. If all goes well, I might be back on the ice by Thanksgiving.
But I’ve never been one for following the rules, and I’ve certainly never been patient. I give myself three weeks, four at most, before I’m skating again.
In the meantime, I have PT sessions with Emma to look forward to. Three or more times a week of her in my space, her hands on my leg, her professional walls slowly crumbling under my relentless charm.
It’s not how I planned to spend October, but I’m starting to think it might not be so bad after all.