Page 129 of Check & Chase
“And we agreed to maintain professional boundaries here.”
With obvious reluctance, he steps back. It’s been three weeks since Chase’s return to play, three weeks of navigating this new reality where I’m both a team therapist and the girlfriend of the star forward.
We’ve established rules: no physical contact at the facility, no discussions about our relationship around other staff or players, no special treatment of any kind.
“Rain check on lunch?” he asks.
“Maybe. Don’t you have practice in ten minutes for the game tomorrow?”
“Coach’s wife had a baby last night. So we’re free.” His smile turns mischievous. “Which means I’m free until the team meeting at three…”
“And I have patients all afternoon,” I state firmly.
“Fine. I guess I’ll just go work on the surprise I’ve been planning instead.”
That catches my attention. “What surprise?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He drops a quick kiss on my forehead. “See you later.”
The arena is packed the next evening, the crowd buzzing with energy as Maya and I make our way to our seats.
“There they are.” Maya points out. I look ahead and spot my mother and Jackson.
“Surprise!” she exclaims, enveloping me in a hug that smells like her lavender perfume.
“What are you guys doing here?”
Jackson shrugs, looking uncomfortable in his button-down shirt. “Mom called, said she wanted to see a game.”
We settle into our seats as the lights dim for player introductions. The crowd roars as the Bears skate onto the ice.
“Number nine, Chase Mitchell!”
The arena erupts, and Chase circles the ice with his trademark confidence. His eyes sweep the crowd, finding me exactly where I always sit. He taps his chest twice—our signal—and then spots Jackson. His body goes rigid, then relaxes as my brother gives a small nod.
The game starts fast. Chase plays like a man possessed, his movements fluid and powerful, no hint of his former injury.
By the third period, the Bears are up 3-2. During a pause in play, the jumbotron switches to the “Kiss Cam,” panning across the audience. The crowd cheers as couple after couple obliges with kisses.
Then the camera finds us. Maya and me, right there on the massive screen.
“Oh no,” I groan as Maya cackles.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the crowd chants.
She plants a theatrical kiss on my cheek, and I laugh, hoping that will satisfy them. But the frame stays on us, and then I see movement on the ice. Chase has spotted us on the screen and is skating rapidly toward the boards, shedding his gloves.
“What is he doing?” I hiss to Maya, who is filming everything on her phone.
“Something stupid and romantic,” she replies.
The crowd realizes what’s happening and erupts as Chase vaults over the boards and begins climbing over seats to reach our row. People are standing, cheering, phones raised.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, equal parts mortified and thrilled.
He reaches our row, ignoring the officials shouting from the ice. “Excuse me,” he says to two teenage girls who scramble aside, staring open-mouthed.
Suddenly he’s right in front of me, removing his helmet. His hair is damp with sweat, his blue eyes dancing with mischief.
