Page 17 of Check & Chase
Tyler skates up beside him once more, saying something that makes Chase’s jaw tighten. Then Tyler’s gaze shifts up to the stands, and lands directly on me.
Shit.
He gives a smug little wave that makes my stomach turn. I pointedly look away.
“Douche canoe alert,” Maya mutters. “He’s coming over here.”
“What? No.” I turn back to see Tyler skating toward the boards near our seats, that familiar cocky smile on his face that once made my heart race but now just makes me want to throw something at him.
I glance at Chase, who’s watching the interaction with undisguised interest. His blue eyes track Tyler’s movement toward me, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Is that jealousy? Or just typical testosterone-fueled rivalry?
“Emma!” Tyler calls up. “Didn’t expect to see you at practice. Miss me already?”
Maya makes a gagging noise beside me. I paste on my most professional smile.
“Just observing the team, Tyler. Part of my job.”
“Sure it is.” His smirk suggests he thinks I’m there for him, which is so absurd I almost laugh. “We should catch up sometime. You know, for old times’ sake.”
“I don’t think—”
“West!” Coach Barrett’s voice cuts through the air. “This isn’t social hour! Get your ass back in the drill!”
Tyler gives me one last meaningful look before skating away, leaving me fuming and Maya cackling beside me.
“I truly do not understand what you ever saw in him,” she says.
“I was stupid. And he hadn’t revealed his true douche canoe nature yet.”
It’s hard to believe I spent three years with him, planning a future. Then came that night—walking into the apartment and finding him inbed with some random girl. His stammered excuses couldn’t compete with the sound of my heart breaking.
Now he’s just another player on the team I work for. Nothing more.
My gaze drifts back to Chase, who’s now lined up for another drill. Something about the way he’s standing sets off alarm bells in my head. His posture is all wrong, weight shifted awkwardly.
“He’s pushing too hard,” I murmur, more to myself than to Maya.
The drill starts, and Chase takes off, driving toward the net with the puck. He cuts sharply to avoid a defenseman, and that’s when it happens. His left knee buckles, twisting at an unnatural angle. Chase goes down hard, sliding across the ice, his face contorted in pain.
My body moves before my brain can process what I’m doing.
“Emma!” Maya’s voice follows me as I bolt down the stairs toward him. “What about the ice?!”
But I’m already gone, racing toward the boards. I kick off my heels without thinking, vault over the half-wall, and step onto the frozen surface that’s haunted my nightmares for ten years.
Ten years since my own body hit this unyielding surface. Ten years since I felt bones shatter on impact. Ten years of waking up in cold sweats, feeling the phantom pain of my failed triple axel.
But none of that matters right now. Because Chase is down on the ice, curled around his left leg.
I slide to my knees beside him, my therapist brain taking over, pushing past the screaming terror of being on the ice again.
“Chase,” I say firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Chase, look at me.”
His blue eyes, clouded with pain, find mine. “Emma,” he gasps. “Emma, Emma, Emma.”
Just my name, over and over.
“I’m here,” I tell him, already assessing the injury. “Don’t move your leg. Where exactly is the pain?”
