Page 207 of Check & Chase
I start to correct him—I’m more than just support, more than just the girlfriend-now-fiancée smiling beside the athlete. But then Chase’s arm tightens around me, his lips brushing my temple, and I understand the deeper truth.
We support each other. Through championships and injuries, through professional triumphs and medical setbacks.
“You good?” Chase whispers as the Cup moves to another player’s hands.
“I’m good,” I confirm. “We’re good. Together.”
His smile tells me everything I need to know about the path ahead. Complicated but worthwhile. Challenging but manageable.
Chase
Chapter Forty-Eight
Waking up after surgery feels like climbing through layers of fog, each breath bringing me closer to consciousness but never quite breaking the surface. Voices filter in and out—medical terminology I don’t understand, the soothing tone of a nurse, and somewhere in the haze, Emma’s voice anchoring me to reality.
“Chase? Can you hear me?”
I force my eyes open, the hospital room gradually coming into focus. Emma stands beside my bed, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she hasn’t slept. Beautiful despite the worry etched on her face.
“Hey,” I croak, throat dry from intubation. “We win?”
She laughs, the sound chasing away some of the fog clouding my brain. “Yes, you idiot. You won. Don’t you remember?”
Fragments of memory return. The game, the goal, the block, the Cup. Holding thirty-five pounds of silver above my head while my knee screamed in protest. Emma rushing onto the ice.
“I remember,” I say, trying to shift position. Pain shoots through my left leg. “Shit.”
“Don’t move,” Emma commands. “Your leg is immobilized for a reason. The surgery was more extensive than they initially planned.”
Surgery. Right. The knee I’d systematically destroyed over championship hockey. The price of the Cup.
“How bad?” I ask, finally fully awake and ready for the truth.
Emma takes a deep breath, settling into the chair beside my bed. “Do you want the sugar-coated version or the medical reality?”
“Since when do you sugar-coat anything for me, Anderson?”
She smiles faintly at that. “Fair point. The meniscus tear was complete—worse than the MRI showed. They had to remove rather than repair a significant portion. There was cartilage damage throughout the joint. Hairline fracture to the tibial plateau where the puck struck you. And enough fluid buildup to irrigate a small farm.”
Each diagnosis chips away at me, but I appreciate her directness.
“Recovery timeline?” I ask, the professional athlete immediately calculating return-to-play scenarios.
“Don’t even start,” Emma warns, reading my thoughts with unnerving accuracy. “You’re looking at six to eight months minimum before you’re back on the ice in any capacity. Maybe two months before walking without assistance. Physical therapy will be intensive and painful.”
The timeline sends a jolt of panic through me. “The wedding—”
“Is still happening,” she interrupts firmly. “Seven weeks from now, as planned. You’ll be on crutches, and we’ll have to skip the traditional first dance, but I’m still marrying you.”
Relief floods through me, though concern lingers. “Are you sure? It won’t be what you imagined. What you deserve.”
Her expression softens, and she takes my hand, careful of the IV line. “What I imagined is marrying you, Chase Mitchell. Everything else is just details. Besides, I’ve always wanted to sign a cast on our wedding night.”
A laugh escapes me despite everything, though it quickly turns to a groan as the movement jars my leg. “Not funny. And no cast, just an extremely sophisticated brace.”
“Even better. More accessible for the wedding night.” Her eyebrows wiggle suggestively, and I’m struck again by how perfectly she balances support with humor, concern with normalcy.
“So you’re not mad?” I ask, needing confirmation beyond the banter. “About the knee, about playing when I shouldn’t have?”
