Page 154 of Check & Chase
“You’ve spent weeks hiding from this, Em. Running away to Hartford isn’t going to fix what’s broken. At least see him one more time, face to face, before you go.”
Her words strike at the core of my fear—that distance won’t heal this wound, that I’m not running toward something new but away from something unresolved.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“All the more reason to do this tonight,” she counters, holding out my jacket. “What do you have to lose?”
Pride, I think but don’t say. The fragile composure I’ve managed to maintain. The pretense that my heart doesn’t still race at the thought of seeing him again.
But Maya’s right. I am running. And maybe before I can truly move forward, I need to face what I’m running from.
“Fine. But I’m just going to watch the game. I’m not promising to talk to him or make some grand gesture.”
“Of course not,” Maya agrees too readily. “You’re just being a supportive former colleague.”
The drive to the arena passes in a blur of familiar streets and mounting anxiety. I find parking easily and make my way inside, the sensoryassault hitting me—the smell of popcorn and beer, the thunderous cheers echoing off concrete walls, the palpable tension of playoff hockey.
I’m going to miss this energy, this building where I’ve spent so many hours healing broken bodies and, inadvertently, losing my own heart.
An usher helps me find an empty seat near the Bears’ bench, close enough to see the players clearly but far enough back that Chase won’t easily spot me. I settle in just as the third period is about to begin, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
The game is still 1-0 for the Orcas, but something has shifted in the Bears’ energy during intermission. They take the ice with renewed purpose, and Chase in particular seems transformed. His skating is sharper, his movements more decisive, his whole demeanor radiating the confidence that made him a star.
Whatever happened in that locker room, it worked.
Five minutes into the period, Chase makes his move, splitting the defense with a burst of speed I haven’t seen from him since before his injury. The crowd rises to its feet as he bears down on the net, but instead of shooting, he passes at the last second to Donny who taps it in for the tying goal.
The arena erupts, and I find myself on my feet with everyone else, cheering despite my conflicted emotions. As the team celebrates, Chase’s eyes scan the crowd again, still searching, unaware that what he’s looking for is finally here.
The remainder of the period unfolds like a fever dream, both teams pushing hard, the tension ratcheting higher with each shift. With thirty seconds left, Chase wins a crucial face-off that leads to a rush up ice. I watch, breath held, as he crosses the blue line with the puck, one-on-one with the defender.
I know his moves, can predict them from countless hours of watching him play. He’ll fake right, go left, then shoot high glove side.
But instead, something unexpected happens. He touches his chest, right where I know he keeps the necklace I gave him, my lucky charm.The gesture is so intimate, so personal, that I feel like an intruder witnessing a private moment between him and a memory.
Then he fires—a quick, precise shot that finds the back of the net like it was always destined to be there.
Game over. Bears win.
The crowd goes wild, celebration erupting all around me in waves of pure joy. But I can’t join in, frozen in my seat as emotions crash through me like a riptide. Pride in what Chase has accomplished. Joy at seeing him succeed. Grief for what we’ve lost. Fear of what comes next.
And through it all, one clear, unavoidable truth: I still love him. Desperately, completely, despite everything.
“You should go down there,” the woman next to me says, breaking into my emotional spiral.
“What?”
“You’re her, aren’t you? The physical therapist. His girlfriend.” She nods toward the ice where Chase is being mobbed by teammates, his face radiant with triumph.
“Ex-girlfriend,” I correct automatically.
She smiles knowingly. “Not from the way you watched him score.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with Maya’s inevitable text.
Maya:Did you make it? Did he see you?
Me:Made it for the third period. He scored the winning goal. Heading home now.
