Page 149 of Check & Chase
After we hang up, I finish packing my belongings, Mom’s words echoing in my head.Love isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about being willing to work through them together.
I’m still turning these questions over in my mind when I reach the main exit of the facility. Through the glass doors, I can see the practice rink where the Bears are running drills. Without thinking, I pause to watch, my gaze automatically seeking out Chase among the players.
He’s easy to spot, his number nine jersey distinctive even from a distance. But something’s off in his skating, in the way he holds himself. There’s none of the fluid grace that usually defines his movement, none of the cocky confidence. He looks diminished somehow.
I watch him miss a pass, cursing audibly even from where I stand. His teammates exchange glances, clearly not used to Chase Mitchell making such basic errors.
The part of me that fell for his fire and drive just feels… sad. For him, for me, for everything we let slip away.
As I drive home, his haunted eyes follow me, along with his words.
“I miss you. Every minute of every day.”
The truth is, I miss him too. With an ache that hasn’t dulled with time or distance. With a longing that makes me question whether pride is worth this pain.
Three days to decide whether to take the job with the Wolves. Three days to figure out if I’m running toward something better, or just running away.
Chase
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Mitchell! What the hell was that?”
Coach’s voice cuts through the locker room noise, silencing conversations and drawing every eye to where I stand, still in my sweaty gear, staring blankly at my open locker. The question is rhetorical—we all know what “that” was. A complete disaster of a game. Four turnovers, two penalties, zero goals from me, and a 5-2 loss that ends our winning streak.
All because I can’t focus on anything except the Emma-shaped hole in my life.
“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, not turning around. “Bad night.”
“Bad night? My grandmother could have played better, and she’s been dead for twenty years.”
A few nervous chuckles ripple through the room, quickly silenced by the coach’s glare.
“My office. Five minutes,” he says, turning away without waiting for a response.
Donovan slides next to me, keeping his voice low. “He’s right, you know. You were a mess out there.”
“Thanks for the support,” I snap, yanking off my jersey with more force than necessary.
“It’s not about support. It’s about the team. We can’t carry you through the playoffs if your head isn’t in the game.”
He’s right, and I know it, which only makes me angrier. The sound of skate blades scraping against concrete echoes through the room as teammates file past, some offering sympathetic glances, others pointedly looking away.
“This is about Emma, isn’t it?” Donovan asks, his voice dropping lower.
The sound of her name jolts me like electricity. I’ve been avoiding saying it out loud, as if keeping it locked inside might somehow contain the pain.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should. Because whatever you’re doing instead sure as hell isn’t working.”
He walks away, leaving me to stew in my own misery. I shower quickly, the hot water doing nothing to chase away the cold that’s settled deep in my bones since she left. Nothing seems to warm me these days.
Coach is waiting when I knock on his office door, leaning back in his chair with an expression that’s more concerned than angry. The fluorescent light overhead casts harsh shadows across his weathered face, highlighting the lines earned from years of managing temperamental athletes.
“Sit,” he orders, gesturing toward the chair across from his desk.
I comply, bracing for the lecture about focus, about team commitment, about putting personal problems aside for the greater good.
