Page 35 of Check & Chase
Her smile is small but genuine. “Just giving you motivation for your recovery.”
After she leaves, I sit there for a while, replaying our conversation. The glimpse into her past, the slight softening of her boundaries, the banter that felt almost friendly. It’s progress, slow but unmistakable.
By the time I make it home, I’m exhausted and irritable, my knee throbbing despite the anti-inflammatory I took after therapy. The house is quiet when I unlock the front door, and I spot Max immediately—curled up on the windowsill in a patch of afternoon sunlight.
I make my way to the living room and stretch out on the couch, elevating my leg as instructed. See, Emma? I can follow directions. I try to distract myself with TV, but nothing holds my interest. My mind keeps drifting to the game tonight, to what I’m missing.
And to Emma. Her confession about her skating accident. The way her hands trembled slightly when she spoke of it, though her voice remained steady. The hint of vulnerability beneath her armor.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and type a message.
Me:Game starts at 7. Channel 6 if you’re interested in seeing what you’re missing.
I stare at the text for a long moment before hitting send. It’s innocent enough, just a nudge to watch the game. Not flirting, not crossing her precious boundaries. But it’s also an opening, a tentative bridge between our professional relationship and something more.
My phone remains silent as minutes tick by. Just as I’m beginning to think she’s not going to respond, it buzzes with a message.
Emma:I know what channel the game is on, Mitchell. I’ve been watching hockey since before you had your driver’s license.
Me:Does that mean you’ll be watching?
Emma:Someone needs to make sure the Bears don’t injure my brother or any of his teammates.
It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. I’ll take it.
Me:You should wear a Bears jersey. It’ll look good on you.
Emma:I’d sooner wear a trash bag. Focus on your recovery, Chase.
I laugh out loud at that, drawing a curious look from Max who’s apparently woken up and moved to the adjacent armchair.
Me:Yes, ma’am. Enjoy the game, Blondie. May the best team win.
I don’t expect another response, but one comes anyway.
Emma:They will. Go Wolves.
I’m still smiling as I set the phone down. Tonight’s going to suck not being able to play as my team takes on our biggest rivals. But somehow, knowing Emma might be watching too, even if she’s rooting for the wrong team, makes it a little more bearable.
And that, more than anything, tells me I’m in dangerous territory with my physical therapist.
Emma
Chapter Seven
The applause is deafening. Thousands of people watching, holding their breath as I take position in the center of the ice. Fifteen years old, Junior Nationals, the culmination of nine years of training.
My costume catches the arena lights, glittering in royal blue and tiny crystals my mom spent three months sewing on by hand. Runaway by AURORA starts playing—soft at first, then building.
I move across the ice, feeling the familiar rush of cold air against my face, the smooth glide of my blades. The first jump is a triple Lutz, which I land. The crowd responds, but I tune them out, focused only on the next element.
Double axel-triple toe combination. Executed flawlessly. I’m flying now, confidence building with each successful move.
The program builds toward its climax—a triple axel, the jump that’s been my nemesis and triumph. I’ve landed it in practice, not consistently, but enough to warrant including it in my program. My coach warned against it, but I insisted.
I set up for the approach, gathering speed along the perimeter of the rink. Everything narrows to this moment. The bite of my blades against the ice, the tension in my muscles, the rotation I need to generate.
But something’s wrong. The approach feels off, my weight distribution slightly askew. A voice in my head screams to abort, to turn the triple into a double, to play it safe.
