Page 170 of Check & Chase
“So what’s really holding you back?” Maya asks when I don’t respond.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Not of the media or professional complications. I’m scared of how much I still feel for him. How easily I could fall back into us without thinking it through.”
“You’ve already forgiven him,” she observes. “So why are you still sitting on the bench like you’re scared to skate? Emma. Comeon.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, frustrated with myself. “I think… maybe I’m overthinking it. Waiting for some perfect moment that doesn’t exist.”
Maya exhales. “Exactly. Babe, if he’s changed, and you want this, then stop making it more complicated than it needs to be.”
After we hang up, I text him.
Me:Room service works. What time?
Chase:7:30. Hilton downtown. Room 1216.
I stand outside his door the next evening, nerves coiled tight. Chase opens it almost immediately, looking like he’s stepped out of a magazine—dark jeans, blue button-down, hair still damp from the shower.
“Hi,” he says, voice low. “Come in.”
Dinner’s already set up by the window. Nothing extravagant, but still perfect.
We sit and eat, conversation hovering around safe topics until Chase leans back.
“So. Bears versus Wolves.”
“Professional. Civil. No leaking playbooks.”
He chuckles. “Deal.”
There’s a pause before he speaks again.
“I’ve been thinking about after.”
I glance up. “After?”
“When the season’s over. No matter how it ends.” He exhales, eyes locked on mine. “You’ll still be in Hartford. I’ll still be in Pinewood. But two hours isn’t a deal breaker.”
I nod slowly. “It’s not.”
“I want this. Us. However this looks. I’m all in.”
My throat tightens. “I want it too.”
His elbows rest on the table as he leans forward. “I’ll drive down. You can come up. We’ll make it work. One weekend at a time.”
“One weekend at a time,” I echo, and it doesn’t sound impossible when he says it like that.
The wine swirls lazily in my glass, but I’m not drinking it. Dinner’s long done—dessert too. My attention is fixed on him instead. Chase rises and crosses to the couch, his glass empty, his eyes locked on mine with a look that makes my stomach twist. It isn’t the familiar gaze I know. This is different—intense, unwavering. Like I’m a meal, and he hasn’t eaten in days.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” I whisper.
His reply is rough, like gravel. “Because I want you, Emma. These weeks without you have been torture. I need you more than I need hockey right now. More than I need to win the fucking Cup.”
I rise slowly, finishing my wine in one gulp. Walking toward the bedroom, I throw a look over my shoulder. “Still got the stamina to keep up, even after the injury?”
His glass hits the coffee table, and then he’s moving toward me. I don’t make it to the bed before his hand finds my throat.
He pins me to the wall, and when his mouth crashes onto mine, it’s messy. My lips part, and he’s there—his tongue sliding in, claiming. A soft moan slips out.
