Page 18 of Check & Chase
“Knee,” he groans. “Fucking knee. Felt it pop.”
Shit. That’s not good.
The team has gathered around us, a circle of concerned faces. I’m vaguely aware of the medical staff approaching, but they’re moving cautiously on the ice, nowhere near as fast as I was.
“Everyone back up,” I order, not caring that these are professional athletes twice my size. “Give him space.”
Surprisingly, they listen, moving back to form a wider circle. All except Tyler, who hovers just behind me.
“Is it bad?” he asks, and I can’t tell if his concern is genuine or not.
“I don’t know yet,” I reply without looking at him. “Chase, I need to check your knee. It’s going to hurt.”
He nods, his jaw clenched tight. “Do it.”
As gently as possible, I palpate around his knee, feeling for damage. The swelling is already starting, and when I hit a certain spot, he lets out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
My fingers work quickly, years of training guiding my movements. His skin is hot beneath my touch, feverish almost, a striking contrast to the icy surface beneath us.
“It’s your MCL,” I confirm. “Possibly a Grade 3 tear.”
“What does that mean?” Chase asks through gritted teeth.
I meet his eyes, not sugar-coating it. “It means you should have listened to me yesterday when I told you to stay off the ice.”
A ghost of his usual cocky smile flickers across his face. “I’m not big on following directions, Blondie.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
The rest of the medical team arrives with a stretcher, and I step back to let them take over. Only then do I become aware of where I am, what I’m doing.
The panic that I’ve been holding at bay crashes over me like a wave. My lungs constrict. My vision narrows. The roaring in my ears drowns out everything else.
Not here. Not now.
A warm hand grips mine, and I look up to find Maya at my side, having somehow made her way onto the ice.
“Breathe, Em,” she says quietly. “You’re okay. Let’s get off.”
I nod, unable to speak. She leads me back to the boards, where someone has gathered my discarded heels. My hands are shaking too badly to put them on, so Maya helps me, then guides me back to the medical room.
By the time Chase is brought in on the stretcher, I’ve managed to pull myself together enough to be professional again, though Maya refuses to leave my side. I’m grateful for her presence as I help Peterson examine Chase’s knee more thoroughly.
“Definitely a Grade 3 MCL tear,” Peterson confirms after the examination. “We’ll need an MRI to check for other damage, but the MCL is shot for sure.”
Chase’s face is stony, but I can see the devastation in his eyes. “How long?”
Peterson looks at me, yielding to my expertise. “Ms. Anderson?”
I clear my throat. “Six weeks minimum. Possibly longer, depending on how you heal and whether there’s any additional damage. We won’t know for sure until we get the MRI.”
“Six weeks?” Chase echoes, his voice hollow. “I’ll miss the start of the season.”
“It would have been less if you’d rested it properly after the initial sprain,” I can’t help pointing out. “This is what happens when you ignore medical advice.”
Maya elbows me. Right. Not helping.
“We’ll get you the best care, Mitchell,” Peterson assures him. “Ms. Anderson will be your primary PT. She specializes in knee injuries, and her recovery protocols are excellent.”
