Page 203 of Check & Chase
Then we’re lining up for the ice, the roar of the home crowd already deafening through the tunnel walls. The moment of truth approaching with each passing second.
As we prepare to take the ice, I spot Emma in the family section near the tunnel. Our eyes lock for a brief moment, so I blow her a kiss, and she smiles, though I can see the worry she’s trying to hide.
One game. One knee. One chance at the Stanley Cup.
I take a deep breath, tuck away all doubts, all pain, all concerns beyond this moment.
Time to play.
Emma
Chapter Forty-Seven
Ican’t breathe.
The crowd around me is deafening, pulsing with collective hope and fear. Patricia clutches my arm so tightly I’ll have bruises tomorrow, her anxiety radiating in waves. Robert stands rigid beside her, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving the ice where his son is about to risk everything.
The players emerge from the tunnel to a thunderous applause, and my heart lodges somewhere in my throat as I search for Chase among the identical helmets and jerseys. Number nine. Always number nine.
There.
Skating onto the ice with the familiar smooth stride that doesn’t quite mask the subtle compensation pattern only someone with my training would notice. To everyone else, he looks normal. Ready. But I see the slight hesitation on his left leg, the fractional weight shift that speaks volumes about the pain he’s hiding.
“He’ll be okay,” Patricia says, though whether she’s reassuring me or herself isn’t clear. “He’s always been strong.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Strength has nothing to do with connective tissue damage. No amount of mental toughness prevents a completely torn meniscus.
The starting lineups are announced, and my stomach drops when I hear Chase’s name. Coach Barrett is starting him despite everything. Despite knowing the condition of that knee.
But of course he is. Game five. Stanley Cup on the line.
The anthem passes in a blur, my eyes fixed on Chase standing at the blue line, weight subtly shifted to his right leg. He touches his chest twice after it ends—our signal.
I’m okay. I love you. Don’t worry.
Too late for that last part.
The puck drops, and the game begins. The Storm comes out desperate, physical, clearly intent on forcing a game six back in Seattle. The Bears match their intensity, every player elevated by the knowledge of what’s at stake.
Chase’s first shift is promising—a solid forecheck, a scoring chance that just misses. He’s moving well, the pregame injection clearly doing its job. I allow myself a small breath of relief that doesn’t last beyond his return to the bench, where I catch the grimace he tries to hide as he sits.
The first period continues in a defensive battle, neither team willing to make the mistake that might cost them the game. Chase takes regular shifts but shorter than usual, Coach Barrett managing his ice time carefully.
The period ends scoreless. I check my phone and find a text from Jackson.
Jackson:Mitchell’s knee looks bad. Tell the medical staff to adjust the tape job.
My brother, noticing from TV what most people in the arena haven’t seen. I text back quickly.
Me:They’re doing what they can. How’s it look otherwise?
Jackson:Bears are weathering the early pressure well. Storm will tire in the second. This is where Mitchell needs to capitalize if he can stillmove.
The second period begins with renewed energy. Five minutes in, the Storm breaks through on a power play, a seeing-eye shot that finds its way through traffic and past our goalie.
1-0 Storm.
The arena deflates momentarily before rallying, but the tension has shifted. Now the Bears must push, must take more chances.
