Page 122 of Check & Chase
We stop at the edge, where a small gate provides access to the ice. From here, I can see the smoothness of the surface, unmarked by blade scratches, waiting.
“The company will maintain it,” Chase says, filling the silence with practical details. “Weekly resurfacing, equipment checks. And there’s a cover system for when it snows, though we can leave it open if you want to skate in snowfall.”
The casual mention of future possibilities, of me actually using this rink, sends a tremor through me. But it’s not entirely fear this time. There’s something else mixed in, something I haven’t felt in years.
Longing.
“I’m scared,” I whisper, the words carried away by the winter wind. “Not just of falling again. Of wanting it again. Of loving it and then losing it a second time.”
His arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. Through our heavy coats, I can still feel his warmth. “That’s the risk with anything worth loving,” he observes quietly. “But sometimes the joy’s worth the fear.”
I stare at the ice, memories flickering faster now—the meditation of practice, the rush of performance, the feeling of flying that came with a perfect jump. All of it tainted by the crash that ended everything, but somehow, standing here with Chase, the good memories feel stronger than they have in years.
“I think I’ve had enough for today,” I decide finally. “But maybe… maybe I’ll be ready soon.”
The smile he gives me is worth every ounce of effort this admission cost—pure joy mixed with relief. “No rush,” he assures me. “It’ll be here whenever you’re ready. Even if that’s never. It’s still yours.”
We stay there a while longer, just breathing in the cold air. The rink waits, patient and beautiful, a bridge between who I was and who I might become again.
That night, tucked against Chase’s side in his bed, I dream not of falling for once, but of gliding across smooth ice under starlight, fear still present but no longer the only thing I feel.
Emma
Chapter Twenty-Six
Three days pass before I find myself drawn back to the rink.
Chase is casual about it, never pressuring me to approach the ice again. He makes no mention of the skates waiting in their boxes, but I catch him watching me with a soft smile when I glance out the kitchen window and stare at the pristine surface that both calls to me and terrifies me in equal measure.
It’s late afternoon when I finally step outside, alone while Chase naps on the couch. His recovery routine still requires more rest than his active nature can tolerate, leaving me with the silence I need to face this next step. The winter air is crisp but not bitter, the sky clear and brightening toward sunset, painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
I approach the rink slowly, each step deliberate as I fight the instinct to turn back. The rational part of my brain catalogues the safety measures—the professional installation, the perfect ice conditions, the complete privacy. But my body remembers only trauma, muscles tensing with each inch closer to the surface that ended everything I’d worked for.
The warming hut door creaks slightly as I push it open. The skate boxes sit untouched on the bench. I reach for mine, running my fingersover the embossed logo before lifting the lid with hands that tremble despite my determination.
The skates look back at me, pristine and hopeful.
I don’t put them on. Not yet. But I take them from their tissue paper nest, feeling their familiar weight, remembering what it was like to move in them, to trust them as extensions of my own body. My fingers find the laces automatically, muscle memory undiminished even after years of deliberate forgetting.
“Hey.”
I startle at the soft voice, turning to find Chase standing in the doorway, his hair rumpled from sleep and concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say, hastily returning the skates to their box like I’ve been caught stealing.
“You didn’t.” He steps inside, the small space shrinking with his presence. “Just wanted to check on you.”
The lack of expectation in his voice, the way he avoids looking at the skates or the ice beyond—it loosens something tight in my chest. He’s giving me space to want this for myself, not performing it for him.
“I was thinking about trying,” I admit, the words feeling huge as they leave my lips. “Not skating, exactly. Just standing on it. Maybe.”
Chase’s expression brightens like sunrise, though he quickly tempers it to something more neutral. “Want company?”
“Yes.” The answer comes immediately, surprising me with its certainty. “But your knee…”
“Is strong enough to stand on solid ground.”
We exit the hut together, approaching the gate that leads onto the ice. I’m still in slippers, not yet ready for the commitment of skates, but even this—standing at the very threshold—feels like scaling Everest in flip-flops.
