Page 39 of Check & Chase
“Want me to accidentally hit him with a crutch next time?”
“Tempting, but no. I can handle Tyler.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression turning serious. “You look tired.”
The observation catches me off guard. “Rough night,” I admit, busying myself with setting up for our session.
“Nightmare?” he guesses, and my hands still.
“How did you—”
“You mentioned running onto the ice triggered your PTSD. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”
I resume my preparations, uncomfortable with how accurately he’s read me. “It’s nothing new. I’ve dealt with them for years.”
“Doesn’t make them any easier, though, does it?”
There’s something in his voice that makes me look up. His blue eyes hold quiet compassion. “No,” I admit softly. “It doesn’t.”
“So, did you watch the game Friday?” he asks, effortlessly lightening the mood. “Bears crushed the Wolves, by the way.”
“Three-two in overtime is hardly ‘crushing,’” I retort.
“Ah, so you did watch!” His grin widens triumphantly. “And here I thought all my brilliant commentary via text went unread.”
“Nineteen texts, Chase. Nineteen.”
“You counted them,” he notes with satisfaction. “And clearly read them all.”
I roll my eyes, gesturing for him to extend his injured leg. “Only to make sure you weren’t reporting new symptoms.”
“Mmhmm. Professional interest only. I believe you.”
The session proceeds smoothly, Chase dutifully performing each exercise. His progress is impressive, though I’m careful not to say it too enthusiastically.
“Good work today,” I tell him as we finish. “The stability around the joint is improving nicely.”
“Does that mean I can ditch these?” He nods toward his crutches.
“Not yet. Another week at least.”
He sighs dramatically. “You’re a cruel woman, Blondie.”
“I prefer ‘thorough’ and ‘cautious.’”
A knock at the door interrupts our banter. One of the administrative assistants pokes her head in, a vase of flowers in her arms.
“Delivery for you, Ms. Anderson,” she announces cheerfully. “Where would you like them?”
I stare at the arrangement—red roses mixed with white lilies, elegant and expensive—with growing dismay. “Who sent them?”
“No card,” she replies, setting them on my desk. “Secret admirer, maybe?”
As soon as she disappears, Chase’s expression changes, the easy warmth replaced by a hard edge. “Looks like someone’s trying to make an impression,” he comments.
I don’t respond, my mind racing. Only one person makes sense, and the thought makes my stomach churn.
“You should get going,” I tell him abruptly, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll see you at your next session.”
