Page 210 of Check & Chase
Memory clicks into place—a modern craftsman on three acres, halfway between our team cities, perfect for whatever happens with our careers down the line.
“You called about it?” I ask, surprised she’d moved forward given everything.
“I did,” she confirms, a hint of nervousness in her expression. “And I made an offer. Which they accepted this morning.”
I stare at her, processing the magnitude of this decision made while I was unconscious in a hospital bed. “You bought us a house? Without me?”
“Technically, we bought us a house,” she corrects quickly. “I used the pre-approval we got together, and the offer is contingent on your approval after viewing. But the market’s moving quickly, and with your surgery and recovery throwing everything into chaos, I didn’t want to lose it if this is truly the one we want.”
The decisive action is so perfectly Emma—practical, forward-thinking, unwilling to let temporary setbacks derail our future plans.
“You’re amazing,” I tell her, pulling her closer. “Absolutely fucking amazing. Of course I approve.”
Relief softens her features. “You’re not mad I made such a huge decision while you were unconscious?”
“The opposite of mad,” I assure her. “Impressed, actually. And grateful that one of us is still functioning at full capacity despite everything.”
She laughs, relaxing against me. “Oh, I’m definitely not at full capacity. I’ve slept about six hours in the past three days, I’m existing primarily on hospital coffee, and I may have stress-ordered our entire wedding registry while waiting for your surgery to finish yesterday.”
The admission makes me love her even more.
“So we have a house, wedding plans, and presumably an excessive number of kitchen appliances on the way,” I summarize, smiling despite the pain medication beginning to wear off. “All we need now is to get my knee functional enough to walk down the aisle.”
“About that,” she says, shifting to her professional voice. “I’ve been reviewing the recovery protocols Dr. Reynolds outlined, and I think we can accelerate certain elements without compromising things. I’ve designed a modified program that could have you bearing partial weight by week five instead of week six.”
I look at her, surprised. “You’re suggesting we push the timeline? You, Ms. By-The-Book Physical Therapist?”
“Within safe parameters,” she clarifies quickly. “I wouldn’t suggest anything that might compromise your recovery. But I know how important it is to you to stand unassisted for the ceremony, and I think it’s achievable with the right approach.”
She’s trying to balance what’s best for my knee with what I actually want, and damn, that means everything.
“I trust you,” I tell her, meaning it completely. “Whatever program you design, I’ll follow it exactly. No shortcuts, no pushing harder than you approve. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she warns. “Because I’m not just your physical therapist in this scenario, Chase. I’m your future wife who wants you healthy and whole for decades to come. The wedding is just one day. We have a lifetime ahead.”
The reminder that our story extends far beyond recovery timelines and wedding dates settles something restless in my soul.
“A lifetime,” I echo, liking the sound of it. “Starting with a wedding at the lake house in seven weeks, me standing on my own two feet—even if one of them is in a seriously unattractive brace.”
As Emma continues outlining my recovery plan, I find myself thinking not of the pain or the challenges ahead, but of the lake house on our wedding day, watching Emma walk toward me under summer skies, beginning the next chapter of a story more important than any hockey game could ever be.
Worth every sacrifice. Worth every moment of pain.
Emma Anderson is worth everything.
Emma
Chapter Forty-Nine
“You’re overthinking it.” Maya stands behind me in the bridal boutique, hands on her hips as I stare at my reflection in the three-way mirror. “It’s perfect, Emma. Stop second-guessing yourself.”
I twist slightly, watching how the simple silk gown catches the light. It’s nothing like I imagined when I was a little girl dreaming of fairy-tale weddings. There’s no massive ball gown, no cathedral train, no elaborate beadwork. Just clean lines, a deep V-back, and a silhouette that somehow manages to be both classic and modern.
“You really think he’ll like it?” I ask, smoothing my hands over the fabric.
Maya rolls her eyes so hard I can practically hear it. “If Chase Mitchell doesn’t cry like a baby when he sees you in this dress, I’ll personally refund your money.”
“It’s not just the dress I’m worried about.” I turn to face her, anxiety bubbling to the surface. “It’s everything. The ceremony setup, the weather forecast calling for possible thunderstorms, his knee, my surprise—”
