Page 30 of Check & Chase
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes meet mine, a hint of his usual mischief returning. “If I’m good, do I get a reward next session?”
“The reward is your MCL healing,” I reply dryly. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Depends on what the alternative rewards might be.”
“Chase,” I warn.
“Sorry, sorry. Rule number two: no flirting.” He mimes zipping his lips. “I’ll be good.”
“See that you are.” I gather my things, heading for the door. “Call if you have any concerns or unusual pain. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Emma,” he calls as I reach the door. I turn, finding his expression more serious than I’ve seen it. “Thank you. For yesterday. For coming onto the ice for me when you were scared.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. “Just doing my job,” I repeat, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
His smile is small but genuine. “Well, thank you anyway.”
I nod and let myself out.
In the safety of my car, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, exhaling slowly. One session down, countless more to go. Six weeks of walking the tightrope between professional and personal, trying to ignore the chemistry that still sparks between us.
Six weeks of pretending I don’t notice the way his eyes follow me around the room, the way his smile makes my stomach flip, the way his vulnerability about his injury affected me more than it should have.
Six weeks of lying to myself that I can handle this.
Chase
Chapter Six
Game day at Pinewood Arena. I’ve been here for countless practices, but tonight is different. The building knows it. The ice knows it. Season opener against the Wolves.
And I’m watching from the fucking sidelines.
I adjust my stance on the crutches—yeah, actually using them now, thanks to Emma’s lecture—and lean slightly to let Coach Barrett squeeze past. He gives me a once-over, his permanently furrowed brow deepening at the sight of my knee brace.
“You look like shit,” he observes.
“Thanks, Coach. Feeling great though. Ready to play tonight.”
He snorts. “Nice try. Ms. Anderson already warned me you’d try something like this.”
Of course she did. A few days of PT with Emma, and she already knows me well enough to predict my attempts to get back on the ice prematurely.
Coach claps a hand on my shoulder. “We need you healthy for the long haul, Mitchell. A couple missed games isn’t worth risking your season.”
“This isn’t just any game though,” I protest. “It’s the Wolves. Season opener. Our rivals.”
“Follow your recovery protocol, and you’ll be back before you know it.”
He walks away before I can argue further, leaving me leaning on my crutches in the hallway like an afterthought. Like I’m not even part of the team anymore.
It fucking sucks.
I make my way to the bench area, where morning skate is about to start. The guys are already on the ice, running through line rushes and power play setups. My usual spot on the first line is now occupied by Keller, a decent player, but nowhere near my caliber.
“Mitchell!” Donovan skates over when he spots me, spraying ice as he stops at the boards. “How’s the knee?”
“Peachy,” I reply. “My PT says I can play tonight if I just rub some dirt on it.”
