Page 91 of Check & Chase
Except nothing feels fake anymore.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Maya says, watching me pace our kitchen for the twentieth time this morning. The sunlight streaming through our windows feels too cheerful for the anxiety churning in my stomach.
I grab my coffee mug, take a sip, grimace when I find it’s gone cold. The bitter taste matches my mood perfectly. “I just can’t shake this feeling that something’s going to go wrong.”
The anxiety has been building since my meeting with Mr. Peterson two days ago. I’d expected termination. Instead, I got something more unsettling—a warning that left me more confused than relieved.
“Earth to Emma.” Maya snaps her fingers, pulling me from the spiral of worry. “Where’d you go?”
“Sorry. Just thinking about Peterson.”
She hops onto the counter, swinging her legs like a child. “I’m surprised you didn’t get fired. Getting caught canoodling with a patient isn’t exactly professional behavior of the year.”
Heat rises to my cheeks as I remember the moment—Chase’s hand on my face, my body between his knees, the intimacy that had nothing to do with physical therapy and everything to do with the connection between us.
“So what now?” Her voice softens. “The game’s tonight, and you two still haven’t had that big conversation about whether this is real or just really good acting.”
“My job, his career. There’s so much at stake.”
“Your happiness isn’t at stake?” The question hits harder than I want to admit. “Because you’re happier with Chase than I’ve seen you in years. Even with all the complications.”
She’s right. Despite the professional minefield and endless complications, Chase makes me feel lighter. Like I can breathe again after years of holding my breath.
But happiness is fleeting. Careers last decades.
“I should start getting ready. Mom’s flight lands in an hour.”
“Coward,” Maya calls after me, but there’s affection in it.
My mother’s arrival brings the usual whirlwind of energy and probing questions. She emerges from arrivals looking effortlessly put-together despite the early flight, her silver hair styled in the familiar bob that never seems to move out of place.
“Emma!” She pulls us both into a hug that smells like her signature perfume and airplane coffee. “How’s my favorite daughter handling tonight’s stress?”
“I’m your only daughter, Mom.”
“Details.” She waves dismissively, linking her arm through mine as we navigate the busy terminal. “Jackson called this morning, all fired up about facing the Bears. Said something about settling scores.”
My stomach drops. The terminal’s fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright, the crowd too loud. “Please tell me he’s not planning to rile Chase up. He can’t even play yet.”
“Well, I might have heard something about protective big brother instincts and rival team tensions.” She squeezes my arm. “But Jackson promised he’d behave. More or less.”
That does nothing to ease my anxiety.
By the time we arrive at Pinewood Arena, it’s pulsing with electricity, the air thick with anticipation and the lingering scent of popcorn and beer. Bears fans in blue and white create a sea of color on one end, while Wolves supporters in black and silver dominate the other. The rivalry runs deeper than hockey—it’s civic pride, bragging rights, years of accumulated grievances played out on ice.
“Good seats,” my mother comments as we settle into our section. The view is perfect, close enough to see individual expressions, far enough to take in the full choreography of the game.
On the ice below, both teams complete their pregame routines with military precision. Jackson is easy to spot, his captain’s ‘C’ gleaming under the arena lights as he leads the Wolves through drills. His movements are sharp, focused, carrying the weight of leadership and expectation.
On the opposite end, the Bears work through their own patterns, but my eyes are drawn to their bench where Chase sits. Even from this distance, his restlessness is palpable. He leans forward like a caged animal, his entire body radiating the need to be on the ice instead of watching from thesidelines.
“Your boys clean up nice in uniform,” Maya observes. “Which one are you rooting for tonight?”
“Switzerland. Neutral territory.”
My mother laughs, the sound carrying despite the arena’s noise. “Darling, there’s no such thing as neutral when it comes to the men you love.”
The word hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications I’m not ready to face. Through the crowd noise and pregame announcements, my gaze finds Chase again. Our eyes meet briefly across the distance, and he raises his hand in a subtle wave that sends my heart racing.
