Page 9 of Check & Chase
“So he’s a player?”
“He has a reputation,” Jen admits. “But I haven’t seen him with anyone serious since he got here. There was some girl last year after we won the Cup, and then he dated someone named Carina for a while, but that ended badly.”
I push my salad around, trying not to think about being that “some girl” from last year.
“They’re practicing now if you want to watch before your session with Chase.”
I hesitate. Watching means seeing the ice.
“You can view from the general medical room,” Jen offers. “There’s a window overlooking the rink.”
That seems safer.
The room is larger than my office, equipped with multiple treatment tables and supplies for quick treatments. Jen guides me to the large window overlooking the rink.
“That’s Mitchell,” she says, pointing to number nine. “You can see he’s favoring his left leg.”
She’s right. Each tight turn brings a flash of pain to his face that he quickly tries to mask.
“He’s going to destroy that knee if he keeps playing like this,” I mutter.
“Good luck telling him that.”
I watch Chase move across the ice, tracking how he skates, where he puts his weight. I force myself to think like a therapist, not like a woman who remembers how those hands felt on her body.
Until he looks up.
His eyes find the window, and for a heart-stopping moment, I’m sure he sees me. A flicker of recognition crosses his face before he turns away.
My phone buzzes.
Maya:How’s it going? Any cute players worth mentioning?
Me:No one worth the trouble.
But as I watch Chase push through obvious pain, I know I’m lying to myself.
Two hours later, I’m still in the medical room, stress-eating a chocolate chip cookie from the cafeteria while reviewing player files. I’ve been avoiding looking at the ice rink again, instead burying myself in medical histories and injury reports.
“Ms. Anderson?”
I turn to find Mr. Peterson standing in the doorway.
“Mitchell will be here shortly. Which is a miracle in itself.”
My heart races. “I’ll be right there.”
He studies me. “You okay? You look pale.”
“Just first-day nerves.”
I follow him down the hallway toward the treatment room, my heart hammering against my ribs. This is it. Professional. Calm. Collected.
My palms are sweating. My heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest. But outwardly, I maintain the cool, collected demeanor of someone who definitely hasn’t touched her patient’s cock before.
Professional. Professional. Professional.
“Mitchell,” Peterson says with a nod as we enter the room. “Good to see you actually showed up.”
