Page 123 of Check & Chase
Chase opens the gate and steps carefully onto the ice in his sneakers. He’s unsteady without skates, especially with his knee, but he takes a few careful steps before turning back to me, hand extended.
“Sturdy,” he reports with a smile. “Custom-built for a stubborn physical therapist with impossibly high standards.”
Despite my nerves, I find myself smiling. “Those impossible standards keep you from reinjuring that knee, Mitchell.”
He’s still holding out his hand, patient and steady, not reaching for me but waiting for me to reach for him. The choice is entirely mine, and somehow that makes all the difference.
I take a deep breath, then another. “If I freak out…”
“I’ve got you.Always.”
It’s that simple assurance that finally propels me forward. I reach for his hand, gripping it perhaps too tightly as I place one foot tentatively on the ice. The surface is exactly as treacherous as I remember—slick and unforgiving—but it holds my weight without complaint.
The world doesn’t end. The ice doesn’t crack beneath me. My breath catches, but more from the flood of conflicting emotions than from panic.
“That’s it,” he encourages quietly. “Just one foot. No rush.”
I test my weight, feeling the familiar lack of traction that once felt as natural as walking. My heart hammers against my ribs, but it’s bearable. Barely.
Chase’s free hand rests lightly at my waist for additional support as I bring my other foot onto the ice. Now I’m fully standing on the surface that has haunted my nightmares for as long as I can remember.
And then it hits me—a tidal wave of memories and sensations so powerful I sway on my feet. Chase steadies me immediately, his grip firm but gentle, anchoring me as emotions crash through my carefully constructed defenses.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, pulling me against his chest as the first sob tears free. “I’ve got you. Let it out.”
And I do, clinging to him as years of suppressed grief and loss pour out of me in heaving sobs. I cry for the dreams that died with my accident, for the competitor I never got to become, for the pure joy that got stolen from me in one terrible moment of miscalculation.
He holds me through it all, his arms a safe harbor in the storm, his voice a constant reassurance in my ear. I don’t know how long we stand there—me sobbing while he keeps us both steady on the ice—but gradually the storm begins to subside.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, pulling back to wipe away the tears with shaking hands. “That was really intense.”
“Don’t apologize.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face with infinite tenderness. “That’s what healing looks like sometimes.”
“Standing on ice and sobbing like a child?”
“Facing what hurts you and allowing yourself to feel it,” he corrects gently. “You’re the strongest person I know, Emma. Even now. Especially now.”
I look around the rink, seeing it with new eyes now that the initial panic has subsided. The late afternoon sun slants across the surface, transforming it from stark white to warm amber, beautiful and inviting rather than threatening.
“We’re on the ice,” I observe unnecessarily.
“We are,” he confirms, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “How does it feel?”
I consider the question seriously. “Scary,” I admit. “But also familiar. Like meeting an old friend who hurt me, but realizing I still remember why we were friends in the first place.”
His smile widens. “That’s a good start. Do you want to take a few steps? Just in your slippers? I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”
The offer tempts me more than I expected, but I shake my head. “Not today. This is enough for now.”
“Okay.” He accepts my decision without question. “Want to get off?”
I hesitate, then shake my head again. “Can we just stand here a little longer? Now that I’m not crying all over you?”
“As long as you want, Blondie.”
We remain on the ice as the sun sinks lower, and I find myself remembering not just the fear and pain, but everything I loved about skating. The memories come in waves now, no longer dammed up by terror.
“I miss it so much,” I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Not just skating, but the feeling it gave me. Like I could fly.”
