Page 33 of Check & Chase
Emma frowns. “That’s higher than it should be. Were you doing more repetitions than prescribed?”
“Maybe a few extra.” At her stern look, I add, “I need to maintain muscle mass during recovery.”
“That’s not how this works,” she says, frustration creeping into her voice. “Overworking the muscles creates additional stress on the injured ligament. You’re potentially prolonging your recovery, not shortening it.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Just sit around and waste away while my team plays without me?”
The question comes out harsher than I intended, revealing more of my frustration than I meant to show. Her expression softens slightly.
“I understand your frustration. But this is a process, Chase. We have to respect the timeline.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one missing the biggest game of the season.”
“True.” She begins setting up for today’s exercises. “But I know what it’s like to lose something you love.”
The opening is too perfect to ignore. “Figure skating, right?”
Her movements falter slightly. “We should focus on your therapy.”
“Come on, Blondie. Give me something here. I’m bored out of my mind, stuck on these crutches with nothing but daytime TV and PT sessions to look forward to.”
She hesitates, clearly debating whether to shut down the conversation entirely. Finally, she responds, “Yes, I was a figure skater. From age six until fifteen.”
“Competitive?”
“Very.” She adjusts the resistance band for our first exercise. “Junior Nationals. I was on track for Senior level before…”
She trails off, but I can fill in the blank. “Before you got hurt on the ice.”
Emma nods, her eyes focused on the equipment, not on me. “Compound fracture of my right tibia and fibula. Eight surgeries to put the bones back together.”
“Jesus,” I breathe. “What happened?”
“Failed triple axel during a competition.” Her voice is clinically detached. “I knew something was off during the approach, but I went for it anyway. Landed wrong. Bones went through the skin. End of career.”
The way she describes what must have been devastating tells me more about her than anything else has. Emma Anderson hides her pain behind walls. I recognize it because I do the same thing.
“That explains the panic attack after you helped me on the ice.”
Her hands still. “I didn’t have a panic attack.”
“Emma.”
“I had a momentary stress response to an adverse stimulus.” She meets my gaze defiantly. “Clinical term for ‘I freaked out a little.’”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I can’t help but smile. “So that’s why you became a PT? Because of your injury?”
She nods, seeming relieved by the slight change in direction. “I spent over a year in physical therapy. Figured if I couldn’t skate anymore, I could at least help other athletes recover from their injuries.”
“And you specifically chose hockey because…”
A slight flush creeps up her neck. “My brother played. I was familiar with the injuries.”
“Nothing to do with a certain handsome hockey player you met at a championship party?”
“You weren’t even on my radar when I accepted this position,” she says firmly. “In fact, I had no idea you played for the Bears until Tyler told me.”
“Fate,” I suggest with a grin.
