Page 7 of Check & Chase
“Mitchell?”
He doesn’t notice my panic. “Chase Mitchell. Cocky son of a bitch, if you’ll pardon my French. Talented, but thinks he’s indestructible. Refuses to rest even when he’s clearly in pain.”
For fuck’s sake.
My stomach plummets. I was so nervous about starting this job that I completely forgot Chase Mitchell plays for the Bears. How could I forget that? The man had his fingers inside me, for crying out loud, and I somehow forgot which team he plays for?
Now I have to deal with my ex-boyfriend Tyler and Chase fucking Mitchell, who’s apparently about to become my patient. The universe really is having a laugh at my expense today.
“He has a history of ditching PT sessions or charming his way out of tough exercises,” Peterson continues. “Our last therapist let him get away with it.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t let any patient dictate their treatment plan.”
He smiles. “Good.”
Maybe it will be okay. Maybe Chase won’t remember me. It was a year ago, one night at a party. He’s probably had dozens of women since then.
But I remember him. His blue eyes. His hands. The way he said my name. The way he called me Blondie in that low, gravelly voice that turned my insides to liquid. The way his fingers felt when he—
Stop it, Emma. For the love of God, stop it right now.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, suddenly very aware of my body. It’s been a year. A whole year. I should not still be having physical reactions to the memory of one night.
“Let me show you around.” He stands and gestures toward the door. “You’ll have your own treatment room, access to the gym and rehab facilities… and of course, the ice.”
The mention of ice snaps me back to reality. The reason I wake up some nights with my heart racing and my body drenched in cold sweat.
I follow him out, nodding in all the right places as he points out different areas. We pass the gym where a few people are working out. I keep my eyes straight ahead, afraid I’ll see a familiar face among them.
“And here’s your treatment room.” He opens a door to reveal a well-equipped space: treatment table, ultrasound machine, an array of therapy tools lined neatly against the walls.
“It’s perfect,” I reply, setting my bag down. “When do I start seeing patients?”
“I’ve scheduled Mitchell for you at 2 p.m. Might as well throw you into the deep end.”
My stomach drops. Great.
“In the meantime, his file is here, along with the rest of the team.” He hands me a stack of folders. “Familiarize yourself, and I’ll check backbefore lunch.”
Once he’s gone, I sink into the chair and take a deep breath. I can do this. I’m a professional. Whatever happened between Chase and me was a one-time thing.
When I finally open his file, his team photo stares back at me. Those same blue eyes. That same dimple when he smiles. That same disheveled brown hair that my fingers were tangled in when—
For fuck’s sake, Emma. Get it together.
Why does he have to be so attractive? It would be easier if he had a unibrow or unfortunate teeth or literally any physical flaw I could focus on. But no. Chase Mitchell looks like he was carved from marble by a sculptor with a thing for rugged hockey players.
My phone buzzes again. Jackson. I finally answer.
“What?” I snap.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine. How’s your first day at the enemy camp?”
I rub my temple. “They’re not the enemy, Jack. They’re my employers.”
“They’re the Bears, Em. The fucking Bears. Our biggest rivals. Do you know how this looks?”
“I don’t care how it looks. It was the only position available, and it’s a great opportunity.”
