Page 104 of Check & Chase
As we talk, Chase’s voice calls from the bedroom, and Maya waggles her eyebrows at me.
“Domestic bliss already. You’re so screwed, Em.”
And the thing is, she’s right. I am screwed, completely, utterly, hopelessly committed to this path we’re on. Because somewhere between fake dating and real love, Chase Mitchell became essential to me. As necessary as breathing, as fundamental as gravity.
“Yeah,” I agree softly. “I really am.”
And for once, the admission brings not panic but peace.
Chase
Chapter Twenty-One
“Read it again,” Emma demands, tapping the screen of my phone where the team doctor’s update sits in black and white.
“The patient’s concussion symptoms have improved. Cognitive tests show they’re ready to start light exercise in a safe, controlled setting.” I can’t keep the satisfaction from my voice. “It’s been two weeks, Blondie. I’m healing.”
“The headaches are still happening,” she points out, arms crossed in that stubborn pose I’ve come to find equally frustrating and endearing.
We’re in my kitchen as Emma prepares breakfast. Two weeks of recovery have established routines between us that feel surprisingly natural—her moving around my space with practiced ease, anticipating my needs before I voice them, the comfortable silence of two people learning each other’s rhythms.
The domesticity should feel strange. I’m Chase Mitchell, professional hockey player, notorious for avoiding commitment. Yet here I am with a woman who knows my medication schedule by heart, who has seen me at my worst and stayed anyway.
“One movie doesn’t mean you’re ready for physical exertion.” She slides scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Concussions are tricky.”
“I’m not asking to do sprints, Emma. Just suggesting maybe a very light exercise session. Five minutes. You can monitor my heart rate, blood pressure, whatever metrics your cautious heart desires.”
She purses her lips, placing the plate in front of me with slightly more force than necessary. The smell of butter and herbs rises from the perfectly fluffy eggs. “I’ll think about it.”
Which is Emma-speak for “maybe, if you don’t annoy me in the next few hours.” I’ll take it.
The knee is another story entirely. While my brain is finally clearing, the meniscus tear has set my recovery back substantially. Back to the single crutch, back to limited weight-bearing, back to the beginning in many ways. The familiar weight of the crutch against my ribs serves as a constant reminder of how quickly everything can change.
“Any plans today?” I ask.
Emma leans against the counter with her coffee, steam curling up from the mug. It’s a habit she’s developed instead of sitting across from me—always alert, always ready to jump into action if needed. “Grocery run before the storm hits. Weather report says we could get up to two feet.”
Through the kitchen window, I can see the first signs of the approaching weather system. The sky has taken on that peculiar gray-white quality that promises snow, and the bare branches of the oak tree in my backyard sway with increasing urgency.
“Think they’re exaggerating?”
“Better safe than sorry.” Her practical nature emerges in these moments, the organized planner who leaves nothing to chance. “I made a list. Essentials, backup supplies if we lose power.”
The casual “we” doesn’t escape my notice. Emma has been dividing her time between her place with Maya and here, maintaining a semblance of separate lives while essentially serving as my live-in caretaker. The arrangement works, mostly, though I find myself increasingly restless on the nights she’s absent.
“Stay here tonight,” I suggest, aiming for casual despite the hope threading through my voice. “Storm’s supposed to hit this evening. Roads will be a mess.”
She studies me over the rim of her mug. “You trying to trap me here, Mitchell?”
“Just being practical. Wouldn’t want you driving in dangerous conditions.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but I catch the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth—a tell I’ve learned to watch for.
The reality is, I sleep better with Emma beside me. Whether it’s some primitive instinct to protect what’s mine or simply the comfort of her warmth, having her in my bed has become the most effective remedy for the lingering effects of the concussion. The nightmares that plagued me after games have disappeared entirely, replaced by the peaceful rest that comes from feeling complete.
Not that we’ve done anything beyond sleep. Emma’s adamant about my recovery taking priority, shutting down any attempt at escalation with firm reminders about blood pressure and healing brain tissue. It’s both frustrating and oddly touching, knowing she’s putting my health above her own desires.
Because she does desire me. I catch the way her breath hitches when I emerge from the shower, droplets still clinging to my shoulders, how her eyes linger when she thinks I’m not paying attention. The attraction that sparked our fake relationship hasn’t diminished; if anything, it’s intensified with genuine feelings behind it.
