Page 120 of Check & Chase
Emma
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ican’t breathe. My lungs feel like they’re trapped in a vise, each attempted inhale painfully catching in my chest as I stare at the impossible sight before me: a perfect rectangle of ice, glistening under warm outdoor lights like a mirror reflecting stars. Professional-grade boards frame the surface, and a small warming hut sits at one end.
A skating rink. In Chase’s backyard.
“What did you do?” The words come out strangled, barely audible over the rushing sound in my ears.
Chase stands beside me, his weight shifting to his good leg, watching my reaction with an expression caught somewhere between hope and dread. The winter air carries the crisp scent of fresh ice, but all I can feel is the familiar clench of panic in my chest.
“I built you a safe place,” he says simply. “Somewhere you can face the ice on your terms. No pressure, no audience. Just you and me.”
My knees go weak. I grab the nearest railing for support, the wood rough beneath my suddenly clammy palms. Ten years. It’s been ten years since I’ve willingly approached ice—ten years of nightmares and panic attacks and avoidance.
Except for the two times Chase went down—when instinct bulldozed right through terror.
The contradiction hits me like a physical blow. I could run onto ice when he was hurt, driven by desperation and love, but standing here looking at this pristine surface that belongs to no one but us, my body rebels.
“You can’t just…” I struggle to find words, emotions slamming into each other too violently to form anything coherent. The rink stretches before us, beautiful and terrifying. “This is…”
“Too much?” Chase asks softly, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “If it is, we can forget about it. I just thought…”
“Why?” I cut him off, finally turning to look at him. “Why would you do this?”
His blue eyes hold mine steady, and in them I see something that makes my chest tighten for entirely different reasons—complete, unwavering belief in me. “Because I saw what it cost you to run onto that ice for me. Because your mother told me how skating was everything to you once. Because I hear the longing in your voice when you talk about it, even when you’re trying to hide it.”
He steps closer, still giving me space but close enough that I can feel his warmth cutting through the cold. The outdoor lights cast his face in gold and shadow, highlighting the determination in his expression.
“And because I love you, Emma. I want you to have everything—your career, your happiness, and the part of yourself you lost when you fell.”
The mention of my accident sends a shiver down my spine, memories threatening to claw their way to the surface: the crack of bone echoing through the arena, the scream torn from my throat, the sudden, brutal end of everything I’d worked for since I was a child. The taste of blood and broken dreams.
“I can’t,” I whisper, backing away from both Chase and the rink. My heart hammers against my ribs. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” There’s zero doubt in his voice, absolute conviction that somehow makes the panic less overwhelming. “You already did it for me. Let me help you do it for yourself.”
I shake my head, the movement sharp and desperate. “That was different. You were hurt. I didn’t have time to think…”
“So don’t think now,” he suggests gently. “Just feel. Just be here with me, looking at it. We don’t even have to step on it tonight.”
The reasonableness of his suggestion somehow breaks through the initial flood of panic. I force myself to take a full breath, then another, fighting against the invisible band crushing my chest. The cold air burns my lungs, but it’s clean and real, grounding me to this moment instead of the horrible memories trying to surface.
“You built this. For me.”
It’s not a question, but Chase nods anyway. “Had to call in some favors and pay a small fortune to get it done so quickly, but…”
“Is this what you’ve been doing? When we’ve barely seen each other this week?”
“Among other things.” He shifts his weight slightly, and I catch the grimace he tries to hide—discomfort from standing too long on his injured knee. “Come sit with me? Even if it’s just so you can tell me what an idiot I am for doing this without asking first.”
The familiar self-deprecating humor, the acknowledgment that this grand gesture might not be welcomed—it cuts through the fog of panic somehow, revealing the vulnerability beneath his confidence. This cost him, I realize. Not just money, but emotional risk.
I follow him to a small bench positioned near the rink’s edge but still on solid ground. My legs shake worse than his despite his injury, adrenaline and terror making my whole body vibrate.
We sit side by side, the rink stretching out before us like a glowing stage waiting for its star. It’s smaller than a regulation hockey rink but far more elaborate than any backyard setup I’ve ever seen.
“I had professionals build it,” he says, following my gaze. “The same company that maintains the practice facilities for half the teams in the league. The ice is tournament-grade.”
