Page 99 of Check & Chase
“The heart wants what it wants,” I quote drowsily, the pain medication finally starting to pull me under. “Even when the brain knows better.”
“Rest,” she instructs, slipping back into PT mode. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I’m already drifting as the door closes behind her, but despite the pain and uncertainty about my future in hockey, a sense of peace settles over me.
Emma loves me.
Not the hockey star or the charming facade I present to the world, but me, the real Chase Mitchell, flaws and all. And whatever comes next—recovery, rehabilitation, rebuilding my career—I’ll face it with her by my side.
Emma
Chapter Twenty
“You don’t have to carry me over the threshold, Blondie. I’m concussed, not dying.”
Chase stands in his doorway, leaning heavily on his crutches, his face a mosaic of bruises and butterfly bandages. The morning light reveals the full extent of the damage—purple and yellow contusions blooming across his cheekbone, a particularly angry cut near his left temple held together with surgical tape. The hospital discharged him this morning with strict instructions: limited screen time, minimal noise exposure, and someone to monitor him around the clock for any changes in symptoms.
That someone is me.
“I wasn’t planning on carrying you,” I reply, shouldering past him with his medication bag. The familiar scent of his cologne mingles with the sterile smell of antiseptic, a reminder of how close we came to losing everything. “You outweigh me by about sixty pounds of pure muscle.”
“So you’ve been noticing my muscles?” His dimple appears despite the swelling around his eye. Even battered and bruised, he can’t resist flirting.
I set his things on the kitchen counter, the prescription bottles rattling ominously as they settle. The sound echoes in the unusually quiethouse—Chase’s sanctuary suddenly feeling more like a recovery ward than a home.
“You need to rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“Only if you join me.” He waggles his eyebrows, then winces when the movement pulls at his stitches. “Not like that. Just… be close. I’ve spent three days thinking about having you in my house.”
The simple honesty melts my resolve. This is Chase, concussed, injured, vulnerable, asking not for sex but for closeness. The request reveals a softness beneath his usual swagger that makes my chest tight with affection.
I slip under his shoulder, supporting his weight as we navigate to the living room. His body feels different against mine—heavier, more fragile somehow. Each step requires careful coordination, his injured knee protesting the movement despite the pain medication flowing through his system.
The couch welcomes us both with its deep cushions and familiar comfort. I arrange pillows with the precision of a nurse, propping his knee at the optimal angle for circulation while ensuring his head is supported enough to prevent any strain on his neck.
“Very nurse-like,” he teases, catching my hand as I fuss with the blanket. “I could get used to this kind of treatment.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended, my worry bleeding through like water through cracked glass. “This isn’t a situation I want to repeat.”
Chase’s expression sobers, the playfulness draining from his features as he recognizes the depth of my concern. “Hey,” he murmurs, tugging me down to sit beside him. “I’m okay. Banged up, but okay.”
“You were unconscious. There was blood everywhere.” The images flash unbidden—Chase motionless on the ice, crimson staining the white surface. “Do you have any idea what it was like to see that?”
Before he can respond, the doorbell rings with sharp insistence. Chase grimaces, the sound clearly aggravating his concussion.
“That’ll be my parents. They texted from the airport an hour ago.”
Of course. His parents. In the chaos of getting Chase home from the hospital, managing his discharge paperwork and coordinating with his doctors, I’d almost forgotten they were flying in from their extended European vacation.
I straighten my clothes and smooth my hair, suddenly aware of how I must look—sleep deprived mostly.
The couple on the doorstep couldn’t be more different from each other. Chase’s mother is petite and stylishly dressed, her silver hair swept into an elegant chignon. Her blue eyes—so like her son’s—immediately fill with warmth as she takes in my appearance.
His father, by contrast, is tall and broad-shouldered like Chase, but where Chase radiates easy charm, his father exudes stern disapproval. His gray eyes sweep over me with the calculating assessment of someone accustomed to sizing up threats to his family.
“You must be Emma.” Patricia pulls me into a hug before I can respond. “We can’t thank you enough for taking care of our boy.”
“Who are you to my son?” Richard remains on the doorstep, his question delivered with the bluntness of a business negotiation.
