Page 155 of Check & Chase
Maya:WHAT? You can’t leave now, he just won! Go see him!
Me:I can’t. There’s media everywhere, security, fans. It’s chaos.
Maya:Since when does Emma Anderson let chaos stop her?
Since I got my heart broken, I think but don’t text.
I make my way out of the arena against the tide of celebrating fans, each step feeling heavier than the last. The corridors that once felt like home now seem foreign, charged with memories I’m not ready to revisit.
This was a mistake. Coming to watch him play one last time has only made leaving harder, reopened wounds I thought were beginning to scar over.
But I’ve made my decision. Signed the contract with the Wolves, packed my life into boxes ready for tomorrow’s move. One brilliant game, one moment of connection through a necklace he probably doesn’t even realize I saw—it doesn’t change the fundamental reality.
Chase decided we were better apart. And now, for my own sanity, I have to honor that decision and build something new without him.
In the parking lot, I stop for one last look at the arena, its lights glowing against the night sky like a beacon. A chapter of my life is ending here, not just professionally but personally. Whatever Chase and I might have been—whatever future we might have built together—it belongs to a story that will remain unfinished.
Tomorrow, I start writing a new one. Without him.
I just wish the thought didn’t feel so much like defeat.
Chase
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Media’s waiting!” Coach’s voice barely penetrates the roar in my ears—part crowd noise, part blood rushing, part pure desperation.
“I need to find someone,” I tell him, already scanning the crowd near the tunnels. Emma. I saw her during the third period, sitting a few rows up from our bench. Those green eyes, that blonde hair, the way she leans forward when I have the puck. She came to see me, and that knowledge fueled my game-winning goal.
“The reporters need five minutes, then you can find whoever you want,” Coach insists, his hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the locker room.
“Two minutes,” I bargain, pulling away from his grip. “Give me two minutes, then I’ll do all the interviews they want.”
Coach studies my face and sighs. “Two minutes. Not a second more. And Mitchell?” he calls as I turn to go. “Make it count.”
I push through the throng of teammates and staff, my body aching from the game’s intensity, knee throbbing in protest. The stands are emptying, fans filing out after the celebration, but I scan each face frantically. Near our bench, I grab a security guard I know from home games.
“Did you see a blonde woman sitting here? About this tall, green eyes, probably wearing blue?”
He frowns, thinking. “There was someone matching that description a few rows up. Left right after your goal, though. Seemed in a hurry.”
My heart sinks. “Which exit?”
“West side, I think. But that was at least ten minutes ago.”
I sprint for the west exit, ignoring the startled looks from arena staff and lingering fans. Outside, the parking lot stretches before me, hundreds of cars, people streaming toward them in celebratory groups.
“Emma!” I call, not caring who hears. “Emma!”
A few heads turn, but none belong to her. I jog further into the lot, scanning rows of vehicles, desperation building with each passing second.
Then—a flash of blonde hair under a streetlight, a familiar profile as she unlocks a car door.
“Emma!” I shout again, breaking into a run.
She turns, freezing at the sight of me barreling toward her. Her expression cycles through surprise, panic, and something soft and vulnerable that gives me hope.
“Chase?” she questions as I skid to a stop, breathing hard. “What are you doing out here? You should be inside with your team.”
