Page 191 of Check & Chase
My phone buzzes with a text as we land. I’m surprised to see Tyler’s name.
Tyler:Watched game two from my hospital room. Storm’s forecheck is exploitable if you chip and chase more. Their D can’t handle sustained pressure below the goal line. Win the next game and the momentum is yours again.
I stare at the message, oddly touched by his analysis. Despite everything—his injury, our complicated history—he’s still watching, still invested in the team’s success.
Me:Thanks, man. How’s recovery going?
Tyler:Surgery went well. Long road ahead, but doctors say comeback is possible with the right rehab. One day at a time.
Me:That’s great news. Keep me posted.
Tyler:Will do. Go get that Cup, Mitchell. For both of us.
I show the exchange to Emma, and she raises an eyebrow. "He’s really changed, hasn’t he?”
“Seems like it. Nothing like a career-threatening injury to adjust your perspective.”
She squeezes my hand. “Speaking from experience?”
“Maybe a little.” I think back to my own knee injury earlier in the season. That had been the catalyst for everything—Emma’s return to my life, our fake relationship that became devastatingly real.
Seattle greets us with unseasonably warm weather and a passionate hockey crowd already decked out in Storm gear around our hotel. Team meetings fill the afternoon—video review of game two, strategy adjustments. Tyler’s observations prove accurate; the coaches identify the same weaknesses in the Storm’s defensive coverage.
By evening, my brain’s fried from information and pressure. Emma suggests room service instead ofgoing out.
“You’re quiet,” she observes as we eat. “What’s going on up there?” She taps my forehead gently.
“Just processing. Coach wants to adjust our forecheck for tomorrow. New positioning, different reads. A lot to remember.”
“You’ll handle it. You always do.”
“Wish I had your faith,” I mutter, pushing away my half-eaten food.
Emma studies me for a moment, then sets aside her own meal and moves to straddle my lap, forcing me to look at her. “What’s really bothering you, Chase?”
I sigh, hands automatically settling on her hips. “What if I can’t deliver? What if we lose this series because I don’t perform when it matters most?”
“Then you’ll still be Chase Mitchell, one of the best hockey players in the world,” she says firmly. “With a team that respects you, a family that loves you, and a fiancée who thinks you’re pretty amazing whether you win a trophy or not.”
Her words loosen something tight in my chest. I pull her closer, burying my face in her neck. “I love you, you know that?”
“I had a hint. The engagement ring might have given it away.”
I laugh, the tension draining from my shoulders. “Just a small token of my affection.”
“Do you know what might help you relax before tomorrow’s game?” She shifts, pressing closer in a way that instantly redirects my thoughts.
“I have some ideas,” I murmur, hands sliding under her shirt.
“I bet you do.” She grinds down deliberately, drawing a groan from deep in my throat. “Consider it my contribution to the team’s success.”
“So selfless,” I tease, pulling her shirt over her head.
Her bra follows, and I never get tired of seeing her like this—flushed, needy, straddling me with that look in her eyes that says she wants to be ruined. I drag my mouth across her chest, tongue circling one nipple before sucking it between my lips. She arches into me, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Chase,” she gasps, grinding harder. “God, you’reso good at that.”
“I’m just getting started,” I growl, scooping her up and carrying her to the bed.
