Page 23 of Check & Chase
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She steps back, surveying her work. “You’ll need to ice it for twenty minutes every two hours while you’re awake. Keep it elevated as much as possible. The medication schedule is in your discharge papers.”
“You going to write that all down for me?”
Emma rolls her eyes. “It’s already written down. All you have to do is read it and follow instructions. Think you can manage that?”
“Doubtful, based on my track record.”
“That’s what I thought.” She crosses her arms. “Which is why I’ve scheduled your first PT session for tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow? I just got injured today.”
“And the sooner we start, the better your chances of a full recovery.” Her tone brooks no argument. “I’ll come here since you shouldn’t be driving.”
The thought of Emma in my house again tomorrow shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. “Whatever you say.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly suspicious of my compliance. Smart woman.
“Do you have food in the house?” she asks, glancing toward the kitchen. “You shouldn’t take your medication on an empty stomach.”
“Probably. I usually order in though.”
She sighs, muttering something that sounds like “of course you do” before disappearing into my kitchen. I hear cupboards opening and closing, the refrigerator door, the clink of dishes.
“Your nutritionist would have a fit if she saw your kitchen,” she calls out. “Don’t you professional athletes have meal plans?”
“Sure, during the season. Off-season is for pizza and beer.”
“It is the season,” she points out, reappearing with a plate. “I managed to find bread and peanut butter. It’s not ideal, but it’ll line your stomach for the medication.”
I accept the sandwich. “Thanks, Blondie.”
“Stop calling me that. Emma works fine.”
I smirk. “Alright then. Thank you, Emma.”
She looks slightly flustered by my sincerity. “You’re welcome. Now eat your sandwich.”
I oblige, suddenly realizing I’m starving. As I eat, Emma moves around arranging things within my reach. Remote control, phone charger, a glass of water, my medication. It’s strangely domestic, watching her create a recovery station around me.
A low, plaintive meow echoes from the hallway, followed by the soft padding of paws. My black cat Max appears, stretching as he emerges from wherever he’s been hiding.
“Oh,” she says, pausing mid-motion. “You have a cat.”
“Max,” I explain, expecting him to do his usual routine with strangers—hiss, arch his back, and disappear under the nearest piece of furniture. “He’s not exactly social. Don’t take it personally when he—”
But Max, the little traitor, completely ignores me. Instead, he walks straight to Emma and begins weaving around her legs, purring loudly enough to be heard across the room.
“What the hell?” I mutter, staring in disbelief as my antisocial cat rubs against Emma’s shins like they’re long-lost friends.
She crouches down, extending her hand for him to sniff. “Hello, handsome.”
He immediately headbutts her palm, then flops onto his side and starts rolling around at her feet, showing off his belly—something he’s never done with anyone but me.
“I don’t understand,” I say, genuinely confused. “He hates new people. Like, legitimately hides for hours when strangers come over.”
Emma scratches behind Max’s ears, and he purrs even louder. “Maybe he’s a good judge of character.”
