Page 10 of Check & Chase
And there he is. Chase Mitchell, sitting on my treatment table like he owns the place, those blue eyes immediately locking onto mine with unmistakable recognition.
Fuck.
“Coach made it clear I didn’t have a choice,” Chase replies, but his gaze never leaves my face.
“Smart man.” Peterson gestures toward me. “You’ll be working with Ms. Anderson today. She’s new, but she specializes in knee injuries. I expect you to listen to her recommendations.”
“Don’t I always?” Chase asks with his most innocent expression, and I can practically feel the charm radiating off him.
Peterson snorts. “Never.” He turns to me. “Ms. Anderson? Your patient is ready.”
This is my cue. I step forward, professional smile firmly in place, even though my entire world just tilted on its axis.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Peterson says, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Mitchell, behave yourself.”
The door closes behind him, leaving us alone.
Chase’s slow smile spreads across his face, revealing that damned dimple that I definitely have not thought about in the past year. “Well,” he drawls. “Blondie. Isn’t this interesting?”
And just like that, my perfect new beginning crumbles around me.
“Mr. Mitchell,” I manage, my voice miraculously steady. “I’m Ms. Anderson, your new physical therapist.”
His smile widens. “Oh, I remember exactly who you are, Emma.”
The way he says my name sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
I am so screwed.
Chase
Chapter Two
“Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”
At least that’s what my father always said—and right now, as my knee threatens to buckle beneath me on a routine crossover, I’m calling bullshit on that particular piece of fatherly wisdom.
I grit my teeth and push through the drill anyway, because that’s what Mitchell men do. We don’t show pain. We don’t acknowledge weakness. We sure as hell don’t sit out practice because of a “little sprain.”
“Again!” Coach Barrett shouts, blowing his whistle with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Mitchell, tighten up that left turn!”
I nod, swallowing the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove that whistle. The ice beneath my skates feels particularly unforgiving today, each stride sending a jolt of pain up my leg. But I’ve been playing through this for weeks now. What’s another practice?
“You look like shit,” Donovan says as he skates past me. “Still not getting that knee checked out?”
I flash him my signature Chase Mitchell grin, the one that’s gotten me out of speeding tickets. “Don’t worry about me, Donny. I’m indestructible.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot is what you are.”
Maybe he’s right. But hockey is all I have. It’s the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense, the only place where I truly belong. I’m not about to let a small sprain take that away from me.
“Line up!” Coach yells, and we fall into formation for shooting drills.
I find my spot, trying to ignore the way my knee protests even the simple act of standing still. My gaze drifts up to the observation window of the medical room. Usually empty during morning practices, but today someone’s there. A woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, watching the ice with an intensity that catches my attention.
Something about her seems familiar, but I can’t place her.
The whistle blows, yanking me back to the present. I take my turn in the shooting drill, firing a slapshot that whizzes past our goalie’s glove. The twisting motion sends a bolt of agony through my knee that nearly drops me.
