Page 211 of Check & Chase
“Emma.” Maya grips my shoulders, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Breathe. The wedding is going to be perfect because you’re marrying the man you love. Everything else is just background noise.”
She’s right, of course. But with just five days until the ceremony, everything feels overwhelming. Chase’s recovery has progressed remarkably well—ahead of schedule, actually, which isn’t surprising given his determination and my relentless therapy regimen. But he’s still on crutches, still in pain after extended periods of standing.
And I’m still splitting my time between final wedding preparations, overseeing his rehab, and sneaking off to the private rink daily to perfect my surprise.
“Fine.” I take a deep breath. “The dress stays.”
“Hallelujah,” Maya deadpans, already signaling for the boutique assistant. “Now, let’s talk about shoes. And don’t give me that look. Just because Chase will be on crutches doesn’t mean you can wear your Converse down the aisle.”
Two hours later, we’re sitting at a café near the boutique, dress safely packaged for alterations, shoes selected, final fittings scheduled for Thursday. Maya’s tablet is open before us, her self-appointed role as wedding planner evident in the color-coded spreadsheets filling the screen.
“The florist confirmed yesterday,” she reports, scrolling through her notes. “And the catering final count is due tomorrow. Are Jackson’s teammates still coming?”
I nod, sipping my iced tea. “Plus dates for four. The Bears-Wolves rivalry is officially on hold for the wedding, though I’ve instructed the bartender to cut everyone off if hockey arguments start brewing.”
She nods, updating her list. “Perfect. And speaking of balance, how’s the ice practice going? For your surprise?”
The question sends a flutter through my stomach. Equal parts excitement and lingering anxiety. For the past six weeks, I’ve been sneakingto Chase’s private rink whenever he’s occupied with appointments, relearning moves I haven’t attempted in years, choreographing a routine that represents everything we’ve been through together.
“It’s coming along,” I fidget with my engagement ring, twisting it nervously. “I never thought I’d feel comfortable on the ice again.”
“Because you’re doing it for him,” Maya observes with uncharacteristic softness. “Love is a hell of a motivator.”
She’s right. Without Chase, I’d never have found my way back to the ice that once defined me. But Chase changed that. Slowly, steadily, creating a safe space for me to reclaim the part of myself I’d locked away out of fear.
And now I’m going to surprise him with the ultimate thank-you. A wedding night performance that shows him exactly what his support has meant.
If I can pull it off without having a complete breakdown, of course.
“Earth to Emma.” Maya waves a hand in front of my face.
“Sorry.” I shake my head to clear it. “Just thinking about everything left to do. The wedding’s on Sunday…”
“And the party’s Friday,” Maya cuts in. “Somewhere between the two, you should probably find time to sleep. You look exhausted.”
I shrug, unwilling to admit how much the preparations have been wearing on me. Between Chase’s therapy sessions, wedding planning, and secret skating practice, I’ve been averaging maybe three hours of sleep per night.
“I’ll sleep on the honeymoon,” I dismiss her concern, though we both know the honeymoon will be a modified version of what we’d originally planned.
The conversation shifts to final wedding details—ceremony timing, reception music, photo schedules carefully planned around Chase’s need for rest periods. By the time we part ways, I’m feeling more certain that despite the complications, this wedding will be exactly what Chase and I need it to be.
My mom is already at the house when I arrive, having let herself in with the key we gave her last week. She’s in the kitchen, apparently having taken it upon herself to prepare a proper meal despite our protests that we’ve been managing fine.
“There she is,” she calls when I enter, abandoning whatever she’s stirring to hug me. “My beautiful bride-to-be. How was the final dress shop?”
“Perfect,” I assure her, dropping my bags and sinking gratefully into a kitchen chair. “Where’s Chase?”
“Napping,” she says, returning to the stove. “That physical therapy session this morning wore him out.”
“He’s determined to walk down that aisle without crutches. Even if it’s just for those few minutes.”
“He’ll do it. That boy would crawl through fire for you.”
The simple statement warms me more than it should. “I know. It’s terrifying sometimes.”
She smiles knowingly. “Your father looked at me that way, you know. Like I hung the moon and stars just by existing.”
The mention of my dad sends the familiar pang through my chest—not the sharp grief of fresh loss, but the softer ache of missing someone I never really knew. “Tell me about him? Something I haven’t heard before.”
