Page 121 of Check & Chase
I continue staring.
“Maya also helped with some of the details,” he continues when I don’t respond. “She thought it was romantic.”
“She would,” I mutter, but my gaze keeps getting pulled back to the ice like a magnet—that familiar tug I’ve been fighting for years. It’s hypnotic, the way the lights play across the surface, creating depth and movement even in stillness.
“You don’t have to skate.” His hand finds mine. His fingers are warm despite the cold, steady despite my trembling. “We can just stay here. Talk. Look at it from a distance. Whatever you need.”
I know he means it. The pressure isn’t coming from him—it’s all internal, years of fear and longing warring inside.
“Tell me why, Chase. The real reason. Not just because you love me.”
He goes quiet for a long moment, thoughtful in a way most people never get to see beneath his playful exterior.
“When I got hurt saving Jackson, everyone kept telling me how stupid it was. How I risked my career, my season, everything. And objectively, they were right.” He looks down at our joined hands, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin. “But I’d do it again in a heartbeat, because some things matter more than caution or logic or even careers.”
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. This isn’t the smooth-talking hockey player the media sees, but the man underneath—complicated, thoughtful, surprisingly deep.
“The thing is, Emma, I’ve seen you watching the ice since we met. You pretend it doesn’t exist or that it doesn’t affect you, but I’ve caught that look in your eyes when you think no one’s paying attention.”
The observation hits uncomfortably close to home. There have been moments, stolen glances at the practice rink, but I thought I was being subtle.
“It’s the same way I’ve been looking at the rink during recovery,” Chase continues. “Like something precious got ripped away, something that shaped your whole identity. And yeah, you rebuilt. You found a new path, became incredible at it. But I don’t think that kind of love ever really dies.”
His words unlock something tight and painful in my chest, a truth I’ve been running from for years. Despite the terror, despite the nightmares, despite building a whole new identity as a physical therapist, there’s always been an Emma-shaped hole where skating used to live.
“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper, the admission costing me more than I want to acknowledge.
“You don’t have to know,” he replies. “That’s the point. This is yours now. To approach or avoid, to test or ignore. However you need to handle it.”
I stare at the ice, memories flickering at the edges of my consciousness—not just the accident, but everything before it. The pure exhilaration of landing a difficult jump. The meditative peace of early morning practice sessions when the rink was empty except for the whisper of blades on ice. Music flowing through my body, translating into movement that felt as natural as breathing.
“Did you get skates too?” I ask, the question surprising even me.
His expression brightens, hope flickering across his features like sunlight breaking through clouds. “In the warming hut. Your size, according to Maya. And a pair for me, for when the knee’s ready.”
“Of course you did.” I shake my head, but there’s no real irritation in it. “You thought of everything.”
“Want to look at them? No pressure to put them on.”
It’s such a small step, but even thinking about it feels huge. “Just look,” I agree, my voice barely audible.
Chase stands first, offering his hand to help me up. I take it, grateful for the solid warmth of his fingers around mine as we approach the small wooden structure. It’s more elaborate than a simple shed—insulated, with a small bench inside and hooks for hanging clothes. A tiny heater hums in one corner, making the space cozy despite the winter air seeping through the cracks.
On the bench sit two boxes, pristine white with the logo of a high-end skating outfitter embossed on the side. Chase reaches for one, openingit with the reverence usually reserved for jewelry. Inside, gleaming white figure skates nestle in tissue paper.
“Maya said you used to prefer these,” he explains. “Something about the toe pick giving you more control on jumps.”
“She has a good memory.” Better than mine, apparently. I’d tried so hard to forget every detail of my former life that I’d buried the good with the bad.
The skates are beautiful—pristine leather, sharp blades that catch the light, laces still stiff with newness. I reach out with trembling fingers, brushing the smooth surface. The sensation is simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar, triggering muscle memories of lacing up, of that perfect snugness around my ankles, of the way the world transformed when balanced on a quarter-inch blade.
“They’re beautiful,” I manage, pulling my hand back before the memories can overwhelm me.
“Like their owner,” he says with such genuine sincerity that I can’t even roll my eyes at the cheesy line.
He replaces the lid, then takes my hand again. “Want to go closer to the ice?”
I nod. Each step feels like moving through thick water, my body fighting instincts honed by years of avoidance. But Chase’s hand in mine provides an anchor, his steady presence beside me making it possible to approach the boards without the panic completely overwhelming me.
