Page 26 of Check & Chase
He answers on the third ring. “Hey, Em. Everything okay? You never call this early.”
“Everything’s fine. Just wanted to check in before my day gets hectic.”
“How’s life with Satan’s hockey team?”
“Less dramatic than you made it sound, surprisingly.” I pause. “How’s training going? Ready for Friday’s opener?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be. Though there are some interesting rumors floating around.” His voice takes on that tone that means he’s fishing for information. “Is it true that Chase Mitchell is injured?”
I roll my eyes. “Fucking hockey players. You guys are worse than high school girls.”
“So… is he?”
“Jackson, I can’t disclose information about a patient.”
There’s a beat of silence. “A patient? Emma, are you overseeing his fucking care?”
“Gotta go or I’ll be late, byyyyyeeeeee!”
“Emma, wai—”
I hang up and immediately silence my phone as it starts buzzing with his return calls. Jackson can be like a dog with a bone when he wants information, and the last thing I need is him putting two and two together.
The drive to Chase’s house takes fifteen minutes. His house looks different in daylight—more impressive. The modern craftsman style complemented by tasteful landscaping screams “successful professional athlete” without being ostentatious.
I take a deep breath before ringing the doorbell, mentally reviewing my boundaries. No flirting. No personal questions. No reminiscing about that night at the party. Just straightforward physical therapy.
The door swings open, and all my mental preparation flies out the window.
Chase Mitchell stands in front of me, hair still damp from a shower, wearing nothing but low-hanging sweatpants and an easy smile. His chest is broad and solid, with toned muscle and a faint trail of hair that disappears down the center.
And he’s standing. On both feet. No crutches in sight.
“Morning, Blondie,” he says, as if nothing’s wrong. “Coffee?”
I push past him into the house, not trusting myself to speak until I’ve gotten my face under control. My cheeks are burning.
Focus on something normal. Something safe. Anything but Chase Mitchell looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.
“Where are your crutches?” I demand, setting my bag down with more force than necessary.
Chase closes the door. “Good morning to you, Ms. Anderson. I slept well, thanks for asking. How about you?”
“Crutches,” I repeat, crossing my arms. “Where are they?”
“Probably wherever you left them yesterday.” He shrugs, the movement doing interesting things to his shoulder muscles that I absolutely do not notice. “Don’t need them. Knee’s feeling much better today.”
“That’s not how this works.” I gesture to his knee brace. “You have a Grade 3 MCL tear. You shouldn’t be bearing weight on that leg at all.”
Chase hobbles to the couch, his limp belying his claims of improvement. “I’m not an invalid, Emma. I can walk to my own kitchen for coffee.”
“With crutches, yes.”
“Crutches are for people who need them.”
“People like you, with a completely torn ligament!”
He settles onto the couch, finally elevating his leg on the pillows. “I used them last night. They’re a pain in the ass.”
