Page 12 of Check & Chase
The door opens, and Peterson enters first. “Mitchell,” he says with a nod. “Good to see you actually showed up.”
“Coach made it clear I didn’t have a choice,” I reply, eyes drifting to the doorway behind him, waiting for my new torturer to appear.
“Smart man.” He gestures toward the hallway. “You’ll be working with Ms. Anderson today. She’s new, but she specializes in knee injuries. I expect you to listen to her recommendations.”
“Don’t I always?” I ask with my most innocent expression.
He snorts. “Never.” He turns toward the doorway. “Ms. Anderson? Your patient is ready.”
And then she steps in, and my entire world tilts on its axis.
Holy shit.
Emma.My Emma. The girl who disappeared after the best night of my life. The one who blocked my number. The one I’ve thought about more times than I’d ever admit out loud.
Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Green eyes that widen fractionally when they meet mine.
She doesn’t look exactly the same as she did at the party—no smoky makeup, no sinfully tight dress—but somehow this version of her, all buttoned-up in a crisp white blouse and pencil skirt, is equally captivating.
If it weren’t for the slight tremble in her fingers and the flush creeping up her neck, I might think I’d imagined our encounter.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Peterson says, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. “Mitchell, behave yourself.”
The door closes behind him, leaving us alone. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I drink her in, noting the changes from a year ago. Her hair is lighter, like she’s spent time in the sun. Her posture is more rigid. But her lips are the same—full and pink and currently pressed into a tight line of displeasure.
“Well.” I can’t help myself. “Blondie. Isn’t this interesting?”
Her composure falters for just a second before she recovers. “Mr. Mitchell,” she replies. “I’m Ms. Anderson, your new physical therapist.”
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Oh, I remember exactly who you are, Emma.”
Something flashes in her eyes—anger, maybe. Or embarrassment. Possibly desire. Maybe all three.
“That was a long time ago,” she moves briskly to the treatment table. “This is a professional setting, and I expect you to behave accordingly.”
“Always the professional,” I agree, watching as she arranges her clipboard and supplies. “Though if memory serves, you weren’t so concerned with professionalism when you had your tongue down my throat.”
The clipboard slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor. She bends to retrieve it, and I enjoy the view until she straightens up, cheeks blazing.
“That night was a mistake,” she snaps. “One I have no intention of repeating or discussing. I’m here to treat your knee injury, nothing more.”
“So we’re just going to pretend we’ve never met before?”
“That would be the appropriate approach, yes.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “And what if I don’t want to pretend?”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see a flicker of the Emma from that night. The one who was wild and uninhibited in my arms. But then it’s gone.
“Then I’ll have to request that another therapist takes over your case,” she replies. “Your choice, Mr. Mitchell.”
She’s bluffing. I’ve been through enough physical therapists to know they don’t just hand off patients because of personal discomfort. But something in her expression tells me she’s serious about maintaining boundaries.
“Fine,” I relent. “Ms. Anderson it is. For now.”
Relief flickers across her features before she masks it. “Thank you.” She consults her clipboard. “Now, let’s discuss your injury. The file says Grade 1 MCL sprain, but you’ve been playing through it for several weeks?”
And just like that, we’re back to therapist and patient.
