Page 15 of Check & Chase
Because while Emma might be determined to keep things strictly professional, I’ve never been very good at following the rules. Especially when it comes to something, or someone, I want.
And I definitely want Emma Anderson.
Emma
Chapter Three
“Tell me again why I’m voluntarily watching men chase a puck at eight in the morning?” Maya asks, yawning into her coffee cup. “I have a shift at the hospital in two hours.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “Because you’re my best friend and I needed moral support to be within ten feet of the ice without hyperventilating.”
She snorts. “Right. Moral support for your ice trauma.”
Technically, I’m here on orders. Peterson told me yesterday that it would be a “smart move” to come watch morning practice. Get to know how the players move, he said. Their rhythms, their patterns. It’ll help when you’re rehabbing them.
Sure, Dave. Happy to observe the very thing that completely destroyed my career and haunts my nightmares.
So here I am. Sitting in the stands above the Bears’ ice rink, pretending to be fine while a bunch of six-foot-tall men fly across the surface that ruined me.
“You sure this isn’t just an excuse to sneak a peek at a certain blue-eyed player?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she follows my gaze.
It’s not like I planned that part. But yesterday’s awkward reunion with Chase is still fresh, and maybe a tiny part of me wanted a second glance just to remind myself why we need to keep things professional.
“Is that him?” Maya asks, suddenly more alert. She points to the ice where Chase is skating gentle laps. “Number nine?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Damn, girl. I see why you climbed him like a tree at that party.”
“I did not climb him like a tree. We just fooled around a little.”
Maya gives me a look that says she remembers exactly how detailed my drunk recounting of that night had been. “His hand up your dress and his tongue down your throat doesn’t qualify as ‘fooling around a little’ in my book.”
“Can we please not talk about this here? I’m trying to be professional.”
“Mm, very professional to invite your bestie to ogle your hook-up during practice.”
“I did not invite you to ogle him.” But even as I say it, my own eyes track Chase across the ice. His skating form is nearly perfect despite the injury, each movement precise and fluid. The only tell is the slight hesitation when he pivots on his left leg.
The idiot should not be on the ice. I told him explicitly yesterday that he needed rest, ice, compression, and elevation. Not more skating.
“So how was it seeing him again?” Maya asks, watching my face carefully. “As awkward as you feared?”
“Worse,” I groan. “He recognized me immediately, called me ‘Blondie,’ and proceeded to make suggestive comments about our history while I was trying to examine his knee.”
“And?” She raises an eyebrow.
“And what?”
“Was there still chemistry?”
I open my mouth to deny it, then close it again. There’s no point lying to Maya. She knows me too well.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I admit. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m his physical therapist now. There are ethical boundaries.”
“Boring. But I respect your professional integrity or whatever.”
The team finishes their warm-up laps, and Coach Barrett calls them to center ice. My eyes drift to another player, number seven, and my stomach clenches.
