Page 6 of Check & Chase
Istare at my reflection in the car window, mentally cataloging all the ways this could go wrong. White blouse buttoned to a respectable height, pencil skirt hitting just above the knee, hair tamed into a tight ponytail. I look every bit the professional physical therapist I spent years becoming.
So why does my stomach feel like I just chugged battery acid?
“You’re going to be late,” Maya’s voice filters through my phone speaker. “Also, you look hot. Even in that boring outfit.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not boring, it’s professional.”
“Same thing. For the record, my outfit choice would’ve had you turning heads the second you walked in.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure HR would’ve loved me showing up in a skirt the size of a napkin.”
“Look, outfit aside, you’ve got this, Em. You didn’t bust your ass for years just to have a panic attack in the parking lot.”
She’s right. I didn’t earn my master’s degree by being a coward. I grab my travel mug and bag, then push open the car door.
“I’m going in. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck. You need to remember that you’re a badass physical therapist who can fix anybody’s shit. Even entitled hockey players.”
I hang up with a smile that fades as soon as I face the Pinewood Bears’ training facility. It’s a sleek, modern building with floor-to-ceiling windows that give just enough of a view inside—rows of gym equipment, a glimpse of treatment tables, and beyond all of that, the gleaming sheet of ice I know is tucked somewhere in the center.
My chest tightens.
You’re fine. It’s just ice. You don’t have to go near it.
I force myself to move, blocking the memories that threaten to surface. The sound of blades cutting through ice. The whoosh of cold air as I spin. The crunch of bone against an unforgiving surface.
Stop it.
I push the glass doors open and approach the reception desk with what I hope is a confident smile.
“Emma Anderson. I’m the new physical therapist.”
The receptionist—Stacey, according to her nameplate—brightens. “Ms. Anderson! Mr. Peterson asked me to send you right back.”
I follow her down the hallway lined with framed jerseys and team photos. The Bears’ history on display. A history my brother would tell me I’m betraying by being here.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jackson. I ignore it. Whatever big brother lecture he’s prepared will have to wait until after I’ve survived my first day.
Dave Peterson is older than I expected, probably in his sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the build of someone who was once an athlete but has grown comfortable behind a desk. He waves me in, holding up one finger as he finishes his call.
“Yes, I understand, but…” He sighs. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye.” He hangs up and turns to me with an expression that’s half smile, half grimace. “Ms. Anderson. Welcome to the madhouse.”
His handshake is firm, his office cluttered but organized. Diplomas and certificates cover one wall, family photos another.
“Thank you for the opportunity. And please, call me Emma.”
“I appreciate you coming on such short notice. Our last PT quit after…” He waves his hand. “Well, let’s just say certain players can be challenging to work with.”
“I grew up with a hockey player for a brother. I’m used to stubborn men who think they’re invincible.”
He laughs. “Good. You’ll need that attitude.” He flips open a folder on his desk. “You have impressive credentials. Top of your class, specialized training in sports injuries, particularly lower extremities… perfect for hockey.”
I breathe quietly. I kept my figure skating background off my résumé. The last thing I want is to explain why a former competitive skater has a panic attack just thinking about stepping onto the ice.
“I’m eager to get started.”
“First, let’s go over the team’s current injury roster. We’ve got the usual sprains and strains, nothing too concerning yet. Season’s just about to start.” He flips through some pages. “Mitchell is your biggest challenge. Grade 1 MCL sprain that he’s been playing through for weeks.”
