Page 173 of Check & Chase
“I… I…” My voice is shaky.
He smiles, leaning down to kiss me gently. “You squirted,” he whispers, eyes dark with adoration. “And it was fucking hot. Nothing to be embarrassed about, Emma.”
I laugh softly, breathless. “But… the bed…”
“Is soaked?” he finishes, a playful glint in his eyes.
We both laugh, and then he kisses me again.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too.”
Emma
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“Anderson, a word?”
Coach Willis’s voice stops me as I’m heading toward the treatment room. The Wolves have been on a losing streak the last few games. One more loss and we’re done, season over, Bears advancing to the Stanley Cup Finals.
“Of course, Coach,” I say, turning to face him. “What can I help with?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Word is going around that Mitchell’s knee is acting up again. Anything you want to share about that?”
My stomach drops.
“I haven’t been Chase’s therapist for a while,” I remind him, keeping my voice steady. “And even if I had been, you know I couldn’t share patient information.”
“Even with your current employer? When it might give us a competitive edge?”
The implied accusation stings. “Especially then. Medical ethics don’t change based on who signs my paycheck, Coach.”
Something shifts in his expression—respect, possibly. “Fair enough. But I need to know your head’s in this, Emma. This game is do-or-diefor us. I can’t have any member of my staff distracted by personal connections to the opposition.”
“My head is exactly where it needs to be. I’ve maintained strict professional boundaries throughout this series.”
He nods slowly. “Good. Keep it that way. We need everyone at a hundred percent tonight.”
As he walks away, I exhale slowly. This is exactly what I feared when the playoff matchup was announced—suspicion, questioning of my loyalty.
The fact that I’ve barely spoken to Chase since we had dinner doesn’t seem to matter. Perception trumps reality, especially in competitive hockey.
The treatment room is buzzing with pre-game energy when I arrive, players cycling through for last-minute adjustments, treatments, taping. I throw myself into the work, grateful for the distraction from my turbulent thoughts.
Jackson appears just as I’m finishing up with one of our defensemen. My brother looks tired, the weight of constantly losing evident in the shadows under his eyes.
“Got a minute?” he asks, jerking his head toward the hallway.
I follow him out, anxiety fluttering in my stomach. “Everything okay?”
“Mostly.” He glances around to ensure we’re alone. “Look, some of the guys have been talking. About you and Mitchell. About whether you’re feeding him information about our injuries, our strategies.”
The accusation, even secondhand, lands like a slap. “Are you serious? You know I would never—”
“I know,” Jackson interrupts, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I shut it down immediately. Made it very clear that questioning your professionalism was questioning my judgment as captain.”
Relief mingles with continued hurt that the suspicion exists at all. “Thanks for having my back.”
