Page 9 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Five

“ Y es, Mr. Peterson, I understand the need for an aggressive approach, but we still need to respect the timeline.”

I pace the worn hardwood floor of the rental house Maya and I share, phone pressed to my ear. Peterson called at eight this morning to discuss Chase Mitchell’s knee like it’s a matter of national security.

“The Bears’ season opener is in two days,” he reminds me. “The team needs a clear timeline for Mitchell’s return.”

“His MCL is completely torn. The timeline is six weeks minimum, and that’s if he follows the protocol.

” I stop at the window, watching rain drizzle down the glass.

“I’ve outlined a comprehensive rehabilitation plan that prioritizes stability and strength.

If he follows it, he has the best possible chance for a full recovery. ”

“And if he doesn’t follow it?”

“Then I’ll document his non-compliance, and the Bears’ management can decide how to handle a player who prioritizes his ego over his health.”

Peterson chuckles. “You don’t pull punches, do you?”

“Not when it comes to my patients.”

“Fair enough. I’ve reviewed your treatment plan, and it’s solid. You have my full support. Just be prepared for resistance. Mitchell isn’t known for his cooperation with medical staff. ”

After ending the call, I toss my phone onto the couch, rubbing my eyes. I spent most of last night researching the latest protocols for Grade 3 MCL tears, all while trying not to think about the way Chase looked at me as I left his house yesterday.

Like he could see right through my professional demeanor to the woman who’d come apart in his arms a year ago.

“Coffee’s ready!” Maya calls from the kitchen, her voice raspier than usual from her night shift at the pediatric ward.

I follow the heavenly aroma to our kitchen.

“You’re an angel,” I say, accepting the steaming mug Maya holds out.

She leans against the counter in her scrubs, dark circles under her eyes. “How’s your hockey boy?”

“Not my hockey boy. His MRI confirmed what I suspected. Grade 3 MCL tear. Six-week recovery minimum.”

Maya winces. “How’d he take it?”

“About as well as you’d expect. He thinks he’ll be back on the ice in a couple of weeks.”

“Men are idiots. Especially hot ones you’ve fooled around with.”

I glare at her over my mug. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Not until I’m old and gray.” She grins. “So, you’re heading to his place this morning?”

“Nine o’clock. His first official PT session.” I check the time on the microwave. 8:30. “I should get going soon.”

“Try not to jump his bones while you’re stretching his leg.”

“Maya! He’s my patient.”

“Mmhmm.” She takes a sip of her coffee, eyebrows raised. “Keep telling yourself that, babe.”

Once I’ve finished my coffee, I head to my bedroom to get ready. I pull on black trousers, a soft gray blouse, and loop a simple gold necklace around my neck. After settling on a ponytail, I pack my PT bag with resistance bands, massage tools, and the treatment plan I spent hours developing .

Then I grab my phone, intending to check traffic, but find myself scrolling to Jackson’s contact info instead. I should call him before my day gets crazy.

He answers on the third ring. “Hey, Em. Everything okay? You never call this early.”

“Everything’s fine. Just wanted to check in before my day gets hectic.”

“How’s life with Satan’s hockey team?”

“Less dramatic than you made it sound, surprisingly.” I pause. “How’s training going? Ready for Friday’s opener?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be. Though there are some interesting rumors floating around.” His voice takes on that tone that means he’s fishing for information. “Is it true that Chase Mitchell is injured?”

I roll my eyes. “Fucking hockey players. You guys are worse than high school girls.”

“So… is he?”

“Jackson, I can’t disclose information about a patient.”

There’s a beat of silence. “A patient? Emma, are you overseeing his fucking care?”

“Gotta go or I’ll be late, byyyyyeeeeee!”

“Emma, wai—”

I hang up and immediately silence my phone as it starts buzzing with his return calls. Jackson can be like a dog with a bone when he wants information, and the last thing I need is him putting two and two together.

The drive to Chase’s house takes fifteen minutes. His house looks different in daylight—more impressive. The modern craftsman style complemented by tasteful landscaping screams “successful professional athlete” without being ostentatious.

I take a deep breath before ringing the doorbell, mentally reviewing my boundaries. No flirting. No personal questions. No reminiscing about that night at the party. Just straightforward physical therapy.

The door swings open, and all my mental preparation flies out the window .

Chase Mitchell stands in front of me, hair still damp from a shower, wearing nothing but low-hanging sweatpants and an easy smile. His chest is broad and solid, with toned muscle and a faint trail of hair that disappears down the center.

And he’s standing. On both feet. No crutches in sight.

“Morning, Blondie,” he says, as if nothing’s wrong. “Coffee?”

I push past him into the house, not trusting myself to speak until I’ve gotten my face under control. My cheeks are burning.

Focus on something normal. Something safe. Anything but Chase Mitchell looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.

“Where are your crutches?” I demand, setting my bag down with more force than necessary.

Chase closes the door. “Good morning to you, Ms. Anderson. I slept well, thanks for asking. How about you?”

“Crutches,” I repeat, crossing my arms. “Where are they?”

“Probably wherever you left them yesterday.” He shrugs, the movement doing interesting things to his shoulder muscles that I absolutely do not notice. “Don’t need them. Knee’s feeling much better today.”

“That’s not how this works.” I gesture to his knee brace. “You have a Grade 3 MCL tear. You shouldn’t be bearing weight on that leg at all.”

Chase hobbles to the couch, his limp belying his claims of improvement. “I’m not an invalid, Emma. I can walk to my own kitchen for coffee.”

“With crutches, yes.”

“Crutches are for people who need them.”

“People like you, with a completely torn ligament!”

He settles onto the couch, finally elevating his leg on the pillows. “I used them last night. They’re a pain in the ass.”

“That’s the point,” I mutter, digging through my bag for my treatment plan. “If it’s uncomfortable, you’re less likely to move around unnecessarily, which is exactly what your knee needs right now. Rest.”

“I am resting. Look, I’m horizontal.” He pats the couch beside him. “Want to join me? ”

I ignore his question and glance around the living room, suddenly noticing the absence of a certain furry presence. “Where’s Max?”

“Next door at my neighbor’s. He’s watching him for the morning.”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “I didn’t think you were actually jealous of a cat.”

“I’m not jealous,” he protests, but his cheeks flush slightly.

“Uh huh, sure.” I shake my head, still smiling. “You shipped your cat off because you were threatened that he liked me more.”

“That’s not—he was being disruptive. I thought it would be more professional if he wasn’t underfoot.”

“Right. Very professional.” I’m still grinning, and Chase’s expression grows more defensive.

“I’m not jealous of a cat, Emma.”

“If you say so.”

“Whatever, just come and sit next to me.” He grins. “I promise not to cuddle you… much.”

And there it is—the flirtatious charm Jackson warned me about.

“I’ll stand, thanks. We need to establish some ground rules before we begin your treatment.”

“Ground rules?” His eyebrows rise. “Sounds kinky.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about.” I straighten to my full height—all five-foot-two of it. “Rule number one: This is a professional relationship. I am your physical therapist, not your friend, not your…” I falter, searching for the right word.

“Hook-up?” he supplies helpfully.

“Exactly. What happened between us last year was a one-time lapse in judgment that will not be repeated or referenced during your treatment.”

Chase studies me, his blue eyes more serious than I’ve seen them. “And if I want to reference it?”

“You don’t get to.” I’m pleased with how firm my voice sounds, even as my heart races. “Rule number two: No flirting, no suggestive comments, no innuendos. They’re unwelcome and inappropriate.”

“That’s a shame. You blush so prettily when I flirt with you. ”

I ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “Rule number three: You will follow my treatment plan exactly as prescribed. That means using your crutches, keeping weight off your injured leg, performing the exercises I assign—no more, no less—and being honest about your pain levels.”

Chase sighs dramatically. “Anything else? No smiling? No laughing? No fun of any kind?”

“This isn’t about fun, Chase. It’s about getting your knee functional again so you can return to hockey.”

“Fine.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’ll be the perfect model patient. Scout’s honor.”

“Were you actually a Scout?”

His dimple appears with his grin. “Not even close.”

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward. I quickly suppress it, turning to unpack my supplies.

“So, what tortures have you devised for me today, Ms. Anderson?”

“We’ll start with an assessment of your current pain level and range of motion, then move on to gentle mobility exercises.” I sit on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “I’m serious about the crutches, Chase. You need to use them for at least two weeks.”

He makes a noncommittal noise, which I choose to interpret as agreement.

“Pain scale, one to ten?”

“Three.”

I frown.

“Fine, five. But only when I put weight on it.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t be putting weight on it.” I pull on latex gloves and reach for his knee. “I’m going to remove the brace to check the swelling and tissue response. This might be uncomfortable.”