Page 11 of Check & Chase
“Fuck,” I mutter, catching myself on my stick.
West skates by, smirking. “Knee acting up again, Mitchell? Maybe you should sit this season out. I can replace you.”
Tyler West. The bane of my existence since I joined the Bears. He’s had it out for me from day one, for reasons I’ve never understood. Though I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I took his spot on the first line.
Or maybe it’s because I had his ex-girlfriend come all over my fingers at last year’s championship party. That might be a factor.
I suppress a grin at the memory. Not that I knew she was his ex at the time. Emma never mentioned it, and I certainly wasn’t asking questions when I had her pressed against that bookshelf, her dress hiked up and her lips on mine.
“In your dreams, West,” I reply, straightening up. “The day I let you take my ice time is the day I hang up my skates for good.”
His eyes narrow, but he skates away without another word. Typical.
Practice drags on for another forty-five minutes. By the end, I’m sweating not just from exertion but from the effort of hiding my pain.When Coach finally blows the final whistle, it takes everything in me not to visibly sag with relief.
“Good session, boys,” Coach says as we gather around. “Few announcements before you hit the shower. First, our new physical therapist starts today. Ms. Anderson comes highly recommended, so I expect you all to show some respect.”
A few of the guys snicker. We’ve been through three PTs in the past year.
“Second,” Coach continues, shooting a glare at the ones laughing, “some of you have mandatory medical check-ins this afternoon.” His eyes land on me. “Mitchell, you’re at two. Non-negotiable.”
I open my mouth to protest, but the look he gives me shuts me down.
“And before you try to charm your way out of it,” he adds, “Peterson said if you miss this one, you’re benched for Friday’s game.”
That gets my attention. Friday is our first home game of the season.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll be there.”
The guys disperse, heading for the locker room, but I linger on the ice. This is my favorite part of practice—when everyone else is gone and it’s just me and the empty rink.
As I round the far side, I glance up at the medical room window again. The blonde woman is still there, watching. When she realizes I’ve spotted her, she steps back quickly, disappearing from view.
Something about her reaction tugs at my memory. The way she moved, the flash of blonde hair and green eyes…
No. It couldn’t be.
After a shower and some ibuprofen, I stretch out on one of the treatment tables, icing my knee while scrolling through my phone. The teamnutritionist drops off my protein shake, and I thank her with a wink that makes her blush.
“Shameless,” Donovan comments from the next table over.
I shrug. “Just being friendly.”
“Mitchell!”
I look up to find Coach standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “Your appointment is in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, sliding off the table.
The walk to the medical wing gives my knee time to stiffen up again. By the time I reach the doorway marked “Physical Therapy,” I’m masking a significant limp.
The plan is simple: flash the smile, downplay the pain, agree to whatever treatment plan they suggest, and then continue doing exactly what I’ve been doing.
I push open the door without knocking. The treatment room is empty, no sign of the new PT yet. Perfect. I can get comfortable and control the situation when they arrive.
I take a seat on the table, testing my knee’s range of motion and grimacing at the pain. When I’m alone like this, I don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt. And it hurts like a motherfucker.
I hear voices approaching outside the door. Quickly, I straighten up and plaster on my most charming smile, ready to work my magic on whoever walks through that door.
