Page 205 of Check & Chase
No more injections.
Whatever happens now, Chase faces it with the damage fully felt.
“He needs to come out,” I say. “That fall probably compromised his joint stability. He’s at serious risk now.”
“He won’t,” Robert responds simply. “Look at his face.”
I follow his gaze to the bench, where Chase sits in obvious pain. Coach Barrett speaks to him briefly, probably offering the option to sit out, but Chase shakes his head.
With five minutes left, his line takes the ice again, his stride now unmistakably hampered, the pain evident in every movement. Butthen—a turnover at center ice, Donovan gaining possession, finding Chase with a perfect pass as he enters the offensive zone.
One defender to beat. The goalie squared to the shooter.
Chase cuts to his right—away from the injured knee—and somehow maintains balance as the defender commits to the outside. One quick shift back to the middle, opening the shooting lane, and Chase fires at the top corner, over the goalie’s glove.
Goal. 2-1 Bears with 4:38 remaining.
The arena erupts, fans on their feet, the noise a physical presence. Chase’s celebration is subdued by his standards—arms raised, teammates converging, but no dramatic slide on the injured knee.
“That’s my boy!” Robert shouts, punching the air. “That’s how you do it!”
I’m caught between exhilaration and terror. Thrilled for Chase, for the team, for the goal that might win them the championship, but horrified at the continued strain on his knee.
The final minutes are excruciating. The Storm presses desperately for the equalizer, pulling their goalie for an extra attacker with ninety seconds remaining. The Bears defend frantically, blocking shots, clearing the zone.
Chase remains on the bench for most of this defensive stand, Coach Barrett wisely deploying other players. But with thirty seconds left, after an icing call forces a defensive-zone faceoff for the Bears, Chase steps over the boards one final time.
“Why is he out there?” I demand of no one in particular, panic rising. “They have the lead! He shouldn’t risk it!”
“Faceoff specialist,” Robert explains tersely. “Best left-handed draw man on the team. They need possession here.”
Chase wins easily and skates back to the net. The Storm defenseman winds up for a slap shot from the point, and Chase does what hockey players have always done.
He drops to one knee to block it.
His left knee.
The puck rockets toward him and strikes him directly on the already-damaged joint. The impact folds him completely, driving him to the ice in obvious agony.
“No!” The cry escapes me involuntarily, hands flying to my mouth as Chase writhes on the ice, teammates converging to protect him.
The horn sounds. Game over. Bears win 2-1.
Stanley Cup Champions.
The arena explodes in celebration, blue confetti dropping from the rafters, but my attention remains fixed on Chase, who’s now being helped to his feet by teammates, clearly unable to put weight on his left leg.
“I need to get down there,” I say, already moving toward the aisle. “His knee—”
“Go.” Robert nods, understanding immediately.
I push through celebrating fans, flashing my staff credential to access restricted areas, taking stairs two at a time. On the ice, chaos reigns. Players embracing, media conducting impromptu interviews, the Stanley Cup itself being prepared for presentation. I scan frantically for number nine, finally spotting Chase at center ice, being supported by his teammates.
Our gazes lock across the crowded ice, and something passes between us—understanding, love, the complex mixture of emotions this moment needs.
I hesitate, one foot on the ice, the familiar panic rising as it always does when facing the surface that once shattered my dreams. But this time, something shifts inside me. All the work Chase and I have done together, facing my fear one careful step at a time, comes to fruition in this moment.
The fear of what happened won’t define me anymore.
