Page 199 of Check & Chase
Jackson:For what it’s worth, Mitchell seems like the type to have considered all angles before deciding. He’s not just being reckless. And he’s got you to help with proper rehab afterward.
Me:When did you become president of the Chase Mitchell fan club?
Jackson:A while ago. Now stop talking and get some sleep, Em. Whatever happens, you two will handle it together.
I set the phone aside, turning to look at Chase. He looks younger somehow, the competitive intensity softened in sleep.
Game five. One more win for the Cup. Hopefully one more game before we can focus fully on healing, on wedding plans, on building our future together.
I curl closer to him, careful not to disturb his injured leg, drawing comfort from his steady breathing. Whatever comes next, whether it’s the championship or heartbreak, quick recovery or complicated rehabilitation—we’ll face it together.
Partners, on and off the ice.
Chase
Chapter Forty-Six
My left knee is on fire.
There’s no other way to describe the sensation, a white-hot burning that radiates from joint to thigh, constant and unrelenting despite the ice pack Dr. Reynolds presses against it.
“This isn’t good, Mitchell,” he says, probing at the swelling. “MRI shows the meniscus tear has progressed since Seattle. There’s also increased bone bruising and fluid accumulation.”
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to remain still under his examination. “Just tell me if I can play tomorrow.”
“Can you? Technically, yes.” He sits back on his stool, expression grim. “Should you? Absolutely not. You’re risking permanent damage, Chase. The kind that ends careers.”
“But it’s not structural,” I press, needing the confirmation. “ACL, MCL, those are intact, right?”
He sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Yes, major ligaments are still intact. For now. But the meniscus is crucial for long-term knee health. Continue playing on it like this, and you’re looking at degenerative issues. Chronic pain. Possibly early retirement.”
The words hang heavy in the treatment room. Early retirement. At twenty-six. With a fiancée, a future family to support, a life barely beginning to take shape.
“What are my options?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “For tomorrow night.”
Dr. Reynolds gives me a long look, clearly torn between medical ethics and the reality of professional sports. “Pain management is the only realistic option. We can do a cortisone injection to reduce inflammation, combined with local anesthetic to dull the pain temporarily.”
“Will that work?”
“For a little bit, yes.” He doesn’t sugar-coat it. “But understand what you’re doing, Chase. You’re borrowing time. Every minute you play is damage you’ll pay for later.”
I nod, having expected nothing less. “After the game, what then? Surgery?”
“Almost certainly. Arthroscopic repair of the meniscus, minimum six weeks recovery before you can resume training. Possibly longer depending on what we find in there.”
Six weeks. That would impact wedding plans, honeymoon, any training. But we’d make it work. Emma would understand. She always does.
“I need to discuss this with Emma,” I tell Dr. Reynolds, reaching for my sweatpants. “But I think we both know I’m playing tomorrow night.”
He nods, resignation clear. “Just be careful out there, Mitchell. Smart decisions on the ice. No heroics.”
The pain intensifies as I stand, a sharp reminder of the damage with every step. I’ve been hiding the severity from teammates, from media, from everyone except Emma and the medical staff.
One more game. Just one more game, and then I can give it the rest it needs.
When I get home, Emma’s in the kitchen, phone wedged between ear and shoulder as she stirs something on the stove. Wedding planning, based on the snippets of conversation I catch.
“No, Maya, definitely no black. We agreed on baby pink, white, and light green…” She spots me and her expression shifts instantly, concern replacing wedding-planning frustration. “I’ll call you back,” she tells Maya, ending the call without waiting for a response.
