Page 190 of Check & Chase
“He also said to tell you good luck tomorrow. Not that he’s rooting for the Bears, but…” She shrugs. “Progress.”
Life can’t possibly get better than this.
I should have known the universe was listening.
Because game two is a fucking disaster.
From the opening faceoff, nothing goes right. The Storm comes out hitting hard, forechecking aggressively and frustrating our breakout at every turn. By the end of the first period, we’re down 2-0, and I’ve been knocked on my ass more times than I can count.
“They want it more,” Coach says during intermission, voice cold with disappointment. “Simple as that, boys. They’re playing like their season depends on it, and we’re playing like we expect them to hand us the Cup.”
The second period is marginally better. We score once on a power play, closing the gap to 2-1, but the Storm respond with another goal in the final minute, crushing our momentum heading into the third.
I catch a glimpse of Emma in the family box before the final period. She’s wearing my jersey again, her face tight with concern. I raise my stick her way, our usual signal, and something in my chest settles.
But it’s not enough. Despite outshooting the Storm in the third, we can’t get past their goalie. Final score: 3-1. Series tied 1-1 heading to Seattle.
The locker room is somber, the celebratory mood from earlier completely evaporated. Coach’s post-game speech is brief and pointed: we got outworked, outplayed, outhustled. Unacceptable in the Finals.
I shower quickly, exhaustion seeping into my bones. The high of yesterday—the proposal, the win, the party—feels distant now, replaced by the heavy weight of expectations.
Emma’s there when I come out of the locker room. No bullshit pep talk or trying to fix anything—she just walks right into my arms and holds on tight.
“You okay?” she asks quietly against my chest.
“Been better,” I admit, letting myself lean on her for a moment. “I played like shit.”
“The whole team did,” she points out. “Plus, one bad game doesn’t define the series.”
I nod, not quite believing it but appreciating the sentiment. “We fly to Seattle tomorrow. Game three the day after.”
“I know.” She steps back, studying my face. “I’ve already arranged for time off. I’ll fly out with you.”
Relief floods through me. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she interrupts. “No way am I missing the rest of this series. Besides, your mom already included me in the family travel plans.”
“Of course she did.” I manage a small smile, the weight on my shoulders lightening a fraction. “Thank you.”
She rises on tiptoes to kiss me, brief but tender. “Let’s get out of here. Food, sleep, then regroup.”
“Best fiancée ever,” I murmur against her hair, letting her lead me toward the exit.
Chase
Chapter Forty-Four
The next morning brings a new set of challenges. Media coverage of our loss is plastered across every sports site, and the headlines are brutal: “Mitchell Falters Under Pressure After Storybook Proposal.” The narrative couldn’t be clearer—I was distracted, unfocused, more concerned with my personal life than the championship.
It’s complete bullshit, but it stings.
“Ignore it,” Emma advises, emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She crosses the room and closes my laptop with a decisive click. “You know it’s garbage.”
“Doesn’t make it easier to read.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. “They’re acting like because I proposed, it distracted me from the game.”
“Since when do you care what the media thinks?” She sits beside me on the hotel bed, taking my hand.
She’s right, of course. But as we board the team plane to Seattle later that day, I can feel the shift in pressure—both external and self-imposed. We’ve let home ice advantage slip away.
