Page 37 of Check & Chase
“I’m not in too deep with Chase,” I protest weakly.
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t push it further, just adjusts her position. “You watched the game on Friday.”
It’s not a question. She caught me curled up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV as the Bears faced off against my brother’s team.
“Professional interest,” I mutter.
“Sure. And it had nothing to do with a certain injured forward who’s been texting you non-stop.”
I don’t respond. Mostly because she’s right.
“Do you think I made a mistake? Taking this job with the Bears?”
Her expression softens. “Because of the nightmares?”
I nod.
“No,” she states firmly. “Look, the nightmares suck. The PTSD sucks. But you faced that ice for the first time in years, Em. That’s huge.”
“I had a panic attack immediately after.”
“So? You still did it. And next time, maybe the panic won’t be as bad.” She squeezes my hand. “You needed this job, and not just for the money. You needed to stop letting the ice control your life.”
She’s right, though I’m not ready to admit it. Working with hockey players, being around the ice—it’s a form of exposure therapy I didn’t know I needed.
“What if I can’t do it?” I whisper, voicing my deepest fear. “What if I freeze up during a critical moment? What if someone gets hurt because I can’t handle being on the ice?”
“That’s not going to happen.” Maya’s voice is full of conviction. “You’re the bravest person I know. When Chase went down, you didn’t hesitate. Your training kicked in, and you did your job. The panic came after, when the adrenaline wore off.”
I want to believe her. Need to believe her. “Thanks, Maya.”
“Anytime.” She yawns, stretching her arms above her head. “Think you can sleep again?”
I glance at the tangled sheets, still damp with sweat. “I’ll try.”
“Want me to stay?”
Part of me does—the scared fifteen-year-old part that still wakes up feeling the snap of bone, the flood of pain. But I’m not that girl anymore.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “Go get some sleep before your shift.”
Monday morning dawns gray and drizzly, matching my exhausted mood. Extra concealer hides the dark circles under my eyes, but nothing can mask the bone-deep fatigue that follows my nightmares.
The Bears’ training facility is quieter than usual when I arrive. Most of the team has the day off after Friday’s win, but Tyler West is there for treatment on a minor shoulder strain.
I spot him in the hallway with Mr. Peterson, and my instinct is to duck into my office before either notices me. Too late.
“Ms. Anderson, good morning,” Peterson calls, waving me over. “We were just discussing the team’s injury report.”
I paste on my professional smile, pointedly focusing on Peterson rather than Tyler. “Anything serious?”
“Fortunately not. Mitchell’s recovery is our primary concern. How’s he progressing?”
“On schedule,” I reply. “Range of motion is improving, swelling is down, and he’s responding well to the strengthening exercises.”
“Good. Management’s been asking when he’ll be back.”
“That won’t be for at least five more weeks,” I state firmly.
