Page 184 of Check & Chase
Inside the hotel, I discover Chase has arranged not just a room but an entire suite, complete with a balcony overlooking the town square. A Bears jersey—hisjersey, with MITCHELL emblazoned across the back—is laid out on the bed alongside a handwritten note.
For tonight. So everyone knows you’re mine. See you after the game. -C
“That boy,” Patricia observes with a fond shake of her head when she sees the jersey. “Subtle as a freight train.”
I trace the letters of his name, a smile tugging at my lips. “He really is.”
“I’ll leave you to get settled.” She heads for the door. “Richard and I will pick you up at six for the game. Chase arranged for us all to have box seats.”
“I’ll be ready,” I promise, already mentally cataloging what I packed that’s appropriate for a Stanley Cup Finals box.
Once she’s gone, I sprawl across the bed, phone in hand, debating whether to text Chase. He’s probably in game-day mode now, focused and intense in a way I’ve come to recognize and respect. But I want him to know I’m here, supporting him.
Me:Made it to Pinewood. Found the jersey. Subtle, Mitchell.
Chase:Nothing subtle about how I feel about you, Anderson. Can’t wait to see you tonight.
Me:Good luck. I’ll be the one in the box screaming louder than your mom.
Chase:God, I love you.
Three simple words that still have the power to stop my breath.
Me:I love you too. Now focus on your practice.
The Bears’ arena is electric. A sea of blue on one side, gold and purple on the other. Thunderous chants echo off the rafters as we make our way to our box seats. I’m wearing a subtle blue dress, saving Chase’s jersey for when the game begins.
The Storm take the ice first, met with a chorus of boos that’s more tradition than genuine animosity. Then the Bears emerge from the tunnel, Chase among them, and the crowd erupts into deafening cheers.
Even from this distance, I can pick him out instantly—number nine, his movements confident, focused, a man in his element. He circles the ice during warmups, head turning toward the boxes as if searching for someone specific.
For me.
When he spots me, his face breaks into a smile visible even from this distance. He raises his stick in a small salute, too subtle for most to notice but unmistakable to me.
“He really is gone for you, isn’t he?” Richard remarks beside me, his gruff voice holding a note of approval.
“The feeling’s mutual,” I admit, unable to tear my eyes away from Chase.
The game itself is everything the first game of the Finals should be—fast, physical, with momentum swinging wildly between periods. The Bears dominate the first, Chase scoring on a beautiful breakaway that brings the crowd to its feet. The Storm surge in the second, tying the game on a power play goal.
I watch with the critical eye of a physical therapist and the emotional investment of a girlfriend, wincing at particularly hard hits, holding my breath when Chase has the puck, screaming myself hoarse when he scores again early in the third period.
The Bears end up winning 3-1, with Chase named first star of the game after his two-goal performance. The crowd is delirious, the arena pulsing with collective joy.
“Chase wants us to wait for him outside the locker room,” Patricia tells me as the crowd begins to disperse. “Said he has something special planned for tonight.”
“Special?” I echo, curious and slightly wary. “What’s he up to?”
She shrugs, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself.”
Post-game protocol means we wait nearly an hour before Chase emerges, freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing a tailored suit that makes my mouth go dry. He greets his parents first, accepting their congratulations.
Then he turns to me, and everything else seems to fade away.
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself,” I respond, strangely shy. “Impressive game, Mitchell.”
