Page 208 of Check & Chase
Her expression grows serious. “I’m not thrilled about the medical choices you made. The physical therapist in me is horrified. But the woman who loves you?” She squeezes my hand. “I understand why you did it. I saw your face when you lifted that Cup. That moment meant everything to you.”
“Not everything,” I correct immediately, needing her to understand. “Not more than you. Than us.”
“I know,” she says simply, and somehow, her certainty about this means more than any diagnosis or timeline.
A knock at the door interrupts the moment, and Dr. Reynolds enters, clipboard in hand, expression tentatively optimistic.
“Good to see you awake, Mitchell,” he greets, moving to the foot of my bed. “How’s the pain level? Scale of one to ten?”
“Four,” I lie automatically, athlete’s instinct to downplay injury still in full effect.
“Seven,” Emma corrects, throwing me a pointed look. “At minimum. He’s gritting his teeth every time he breathes too deeply.”
Dr. Reynolds chuckles. “And this is why we’re fortunate to have Ms. Anderson involved in your recovery. Honesty about pain levels is crucial for your medication management.”
I scowl at Emma, who looks entirely unrepentant. “Fine. Seven. Maybe eight when I try to move.”
“Expected, given the extensive work we did in there,” Dr. Reynolds says, making notes. “The surgery went as well as could be hoped, though the damage was more substantial than imaging suggested.”
He launches into a detailed explanation of the procedure—terms like debridement and partial meniscectomy washing over me in a wave of medical jargon that Emma seems to follow easily.
“What’s the recovery plan?” I ask.
“Aggressive but careful,” Dr. Reynolds explains. “Three days here for initial recovery and pain management. Then home with continuedimmobilization for two weeks. After that, we begin progressive weight-bearing exercises, range of motion work, and strengthening as healing permits.”
“Under my supervision,” Emma adds, her tone making clear this isn’t up for debate. “I’ve already spoken with the Wolves’ management about taking leave to oversee your initial recovery.”
This is news to me. “You’re taking more time off? Emma, your career—”
“Is just fine,” she interrupts. “The Wolves understand the situation. Jackson may have pulled some strings as captain, but they’ve officially granted me a three-month sabbatical for ‘personal family health matters.’ With the off-season upon us, the timing actually works well.”
The gesture—her putting my recovery ahead of her career—sends a wave of emotion through me so powerful it momentarily overshadows the pain in my knee.
“I don’t deserve you,” I murmur, not caring that Dr. Reynolds is still standing there.
“Probably not,” she agrees cheerfully. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”
Dr. Reynolds clears his throat, clearly amused by our exchange. “I’ll leave you two to discuss the finer points of recovery romance. Try to rest, Chase. The more you sleep now, the better your body can begin healing.”
After he leaves, exhaustion crashes over me. Emma notices immediately, adjusting my pillows carefully.
“Sleep,” she encourages, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Promise?” I ask, already feeling consciousness slipping away again.
“Always,” she assures me, the word following me into dreams.
The next time I wake, the room is dimmer, evening shadows stretching across the floor. Emma is still there as promised, but she’s not alone. My parents sit on the small couch beneath the window, and a large silver object occupies the corner of the room—the Stanley Cup, apparently making a return visit.
“There he is,” my father says, noticing my return to consciousness first. “Sleeping Beauty awakens.”
“Be nice, Robert,” my mother chides, though she’s smiling as she approaches the bed. “How are you feeling, honey?”
“Like I blocked a slap shot with my knee and then had surgeons carve it up,” I answer honestly, earning a snort of amusement from Emma.
I notice a figure on crutches at the back of the group—Tyler West, looking both awkward and determined as he navigates into the room with his own knee immobilized in a heavy brace.
“West,” I greet, genuinely surprised to see him here. “Didn’t expect you to make the trip.”
