Page 24 of Check & Chase
“Or maybe you’re secretly a cat whisperer.” I shake my head in amazement as he actually climbs into Emma’s lap when she sits on the floor. “This isn’t right. I’ve had him for two years, and he’s never warmed up to anyone this fast.”
“Animals can sense things,” she replies, stroking his fur. “Maybe he knows I’m here to help you.”
“Either that or he’s plotting to replace me with you,” I mutter, though I can’t help but smile at the sight of them together.
She laughs, her whole face lighting up. Max seems to approve, purring even more.
“Well, Max. You’re going to have to share me with your human for the next few weeks. Think you can handle that?”
He responds by stretching up to nuzzle her chin, and I swear the little shit is smirking at me.
“Unbelievable,” I say. “My own cat is trying to steal my physical therapist.”
“Maybe he just has better manners than you do,” Emma teases, gently moving him off her lap as she stands. “I should get going. You should rest. The first twenty-four hours after an injury are crucial.”
I nod, not wanting her to leave but unable to think of a legitimate reason to ask her to stay. “What time tomorrow?”
“9 a.m. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I smirk. “Promise. But you might want to stick around just in case I do.”
She pauses at the door, her hand on the handle, a flicker of color rising in her cheeks. She doesn’t look back, but the hint of a smile tugs at her lips. “Call if you need anything. My number’s on the discharge papers.”
“I already have your number,” I remind her with a small smile. “From last year. You might need to unblock me, though.”
“If I blocked you, I probably had a good reason.”
I chuckle. “Harsh. But fair.”
She exhales lightly. “Fine. Use it if necessary—for medical concerns only.”
With that parting shot, she’s gone, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and the echo of her voice in my otherwise empty house.
Max immediately jumps onto the couch beside me, settling against my good leg with a contented sigh.
“Don’t get too attached,” I warn him. “She’s just my physical therapist.”
He opens one eye and gives me a look that tells me he doesn’t believe me, then goes back to purring.
I sink deeper into the couch, feeling the pain medication finally taking full effect. Six weeks minimum. The start of the season gone.
My phone buzzes again—more teammate messages. I appreciate it, but right now, all I can think about is Emma running onto the ice without hesitation when I went down.
The image is seared into my brain: her blonde hair flying, face determined as she kicked off her heels and vaulted over the boards. It was instinctive—followed by what was clearly a panic attack once the adrenaline wore off.
Why would someone with an obvious fear of ice choose a career working with hockey players? It doesn’t make sense. Just like it doesn’t make sense that after a year of trying to forget about her, she’s suddenly back in my life, holding the key to my recovery.
I remember the terror in her eyes as she stood on the ice after the medical team arrived. The way her friend had to practically carry her back to solid ground. There’s a story there, one I intend to uncover during our many sessions together.
Because if I’m going to be sidelined for six weeks, I might as well solve the mystery that is Emma Anderson. Figure out why she blocked my number after our encounter last year. Discover what happened to make her fear the very surface her clients perform on.
And maybe, just maybe, see if that chemistry between us was as realas I remember.
I reach for my phone, scrolling to the calendar app. October 5th. Just three days before the season opener against the Wolves. If all goes well, I might be back on the ice by Thanksgiving.
But I’ve never been one for following the rules, and I’ve certainly never been patient. I give myself three weeks, four at most, before I’m skating again.
In the meantime, I have PT sessions with Emma to look forward to. Three or more times a week of her in my space, her hands on my leg, her professional walls slowly crumbling under my relentless charm.
