Page 204 of Check & Chase
Chase’s line jumps over the boards, and I find myself holding my breath as he carries the puck through the neutral zone, defenders converging. He makes a quick cut to avoid a check and stumbles, just slightly, left leg momentarily buckling before he recovers and dishes the puck to Donovan.
“Did you see that?” I whisper to Patricia, unable to contain my concern.
She nods, face tight with worry. “The knee?”
“It’s giving out,” I confirm. “The medication is wearing off earlier than they expected.”
The shift ends without incident, but when Chase returns to the bench, Dr. Reynolds is immediately beside him, a brief consultation that results in Chase disappearing down the tunnel toward the locker room.
Second injection. They’re risking a second injection before the third period even begins.
Chase returns five minutes later, just as the Bears gain a power play. He steps onto the ice, moving more fluidly again—clear evidence of fresh medication numbing the pain.
The power play works with a perfect cross-ice pass from Chase to Miller, who buries it in the top corner.
1-1. Tie game.
The arena erupts, fans on their feet. Chase celebrates with teammates before returning to the bench, and I catch the genuine smile that breaks through.
For just that moment, watching him in his element, doing what he loves at the highest level, I understand why he’s risking everything. Thisgame, this team, this chance at a championship—it’s what he’s worked for his entire life.
How could anyone walk away from that, even with a damaged knee?
The understanding doesn’t ease my medical concerns, but it softens them. This isn’t just reckless athletic machismo. This is Chase fighting for something that defines him.
The second period ends with the teams still tied 1-1. Twenty minutes remain in regulation. Twenty minutes that might determine the championship, that might define Chase’s career.
“How bad do you think it is?” Patricia asks quietly as the ice is resurfaced between periods. “The knee.”
I hesitate, but she deserves the truth.
“Bad,” I admit. “The medication is wearing off faster than it should, which means the inflammation is increasing despite treatment. He’ll need surgery immediately, regardless of tonight’s outcome. Eight to twelve weeks recovery, minimum.”
She absorbs this with a mother’s stoicism, nodding slowly. “But no permanent damage? He’ll recover fully?”
“That depends on what happens in the next twenty minutes,” I say carefully. “If he makes it through without further injury, the prognosis is good. But every minute on that knee increases the risk of complications.”
“He’d never forgive himself for sitting out,” Robert interjects. “Not this game. Not with everything on the line.”
“I know,” I acknowledge. “That’s why I didn’t fight him on it.”
“You’re not just a physical therapist anymore,” Patricia reminds me gently, covering my hand with hers. “You’re the woman who loves him. Who understands what this means to him.”
The simple statement brings unexpected tears to my eyes. She’s right. My role in Chase’s life has evolved beyond professional boundaries. I understand him—both the professional athlete driven to compete at all costs and the man who wants a future with me.
The teams come back for the third period, and the tension becomes even more intense. This is it. Twenty minutes to see if the Bears lift the Stanley Cup tonight.
Chase is skating better now—smoother strides, more confidence. The medication must be working again. He generates a scoring chance immediately, a shot that rings off the post and has the entire arena groaning in unison.
Five minutes into the period, the intensity increases as both teams recognize the dwindling clock. Hits are harder, risks greater. Chase takes a hard check along the boards, bouncing off awkwardly, and my heart stops until he pushes himself back to his feet.
The next shift brings the moment I’ve been dreading. Chase battles for position in front of the Storm’s net, gets tangled with a defender, and goes down hard—landing directly on his left knee.
The sound that escapes me is involuntary, a gasp of horror. Robert’s hand finds my shoulder, steadying me as we both watch Chase struggle to his feet, face contorted in pain he can no longer hide.
But he stays on the ice. Of course he stays on the ice. Third period of a tied game.
The shift ends, and Chase limps visibly as he returns to the bench, immediately surrounded by medical staff. Dr. Reynolds examines him briefly before shaking his head.
