Page 202 of Check & Chase
“I’ve already booked the OR for tomorrow morning,” he admits. “8 a.m. We’ll need to assess the full damage before then, but you need to plan for the recovery timeline we discussed.”
“He’ll be there,” Emma confirms when I don’t immediately respond. “We both will.”
After he leaves, silence fills the treatment room, broken only by the soft sounds of Emma’s hands working gently on my injury.
“Am I being selfish?” I ask suddenly, voicing the doubt that’s been growing all day. “Putting the game before… everything else?”
Emma’s hands still, her eyes rising to meet mine. For a moment, she says nothing, considering the question.
“Yes,” she says finally, honestly. “But also no. This matters to you in a way I can’t fully understand, but I respect. It’s your body, your career, your choice. Would I prefer you sit this one out, prioritize your long-term health? Of course. But I also know you’d never forgive yourself for not trying.”
Something tight in my chest loosens at her understanding. “Thank you for getting it. For supporting me even when you think I’m being an idiot.”
“Well, I agreed to marry an athlete,” she points out. “Questionable judgment comes with the territory.”
I laugh despite everything. “Worst decision of your life?”
“Jury’s still out,” she teases, though her eyes soften with unmistakable love. “Ask me again after tonight.”
As game time approaches, Emma helps me get dressed. Compression shorts, carefully positioned knee brace under my pants.
She’s wearing my jersey, MITCHELL 9 bold across her back. Her ring gleams on her finger, a reminder of everything waiting beyond tonight’s game, win or lose.
“Ready?” she asks as I finish lacing my dress shoes.
“As I’ll ever be,” I admit, standing carefully to test the knee. It’s still painful but manageable. For now.
She studies my face, reading the pain I’m trying to hide. “You don’t have to do this, you know. The guys would understand. Your career…”
“I do,” I interrupt gently. “Have to do this. For them, for me, for everything we’ve worked for. One game, Emma. Just get me through one game.”
Conflict flashes across her features—the medical professional who knows better versus the partner who understands what this means to me. But instead of arguing, she nods.
“One game,” she agrees. “But you tell me if it gets too bad. Promise me, Chase. If something feels seriously wrong, you get off the ice. The Cup isn’t worth permanent disability.”
“I promise,” I tell her, meaning it despite knowing the likelihood is virtually nonexistent.
The drive to the arena passes in tense silence. The streets of Pinewood are packed with fans already, the excitement palpable even through closed car windows. At the players’ entrance, Emma squeezes my hand once before we separate—me to the locker room, her to the family section.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I respond, kissing her quickly before turning toward the tunnel.
Dr. Reynolds arrives exactly half an hour before the game, medical bag containing the injections that will get me through tonight. The procedure is quick but painful—needles inserted directly into the joint, depositing medication that will temporarily mask the damage.
“That should take effect in about twenty minutes,” he explains. “Peak effectiveness through the first and second periods, likely starting to fade in the third. If you need another injection between periods, find me. But only once more, Chase. Any more than that risks long-term complications beyond what you’re already facing.”
I nod, already feeling the initial numbing effect spreading through the joint. Not pain-free, but significantly better than before. Enough to play. Enough to compete for the Cup.
“Thanks, Doc,” I tell him sincerely. “For everything.”
He sighs, closing his bag. “Just be careful out there, Mitchell. There are more important things than hockey.”
As he leaves, his words echo in my mind, mingling with Emma’s similar sentiments. More important things than hockey. A future with Emma. Our wedding. Potential children someday, who I’d like to be able to skate with.
But still, I prepare. Still, I dress in my uniform, lace my skates, tape my stick with the same meticulous care as every game day. Because this isn’t just any game. This is the Stanley Cup Final, Game Five, a chance at a championship that players go entire careers without experiencing.
The team gathers for Coach’s final speech, his usual pre-game intensity elevated by the magnitude of tonight’s opportunity. He speaks about sacrifice, about brotherhood, about seizing moments that might never come again.
