Page 43 of Check & Chase
I feel a surge of admiration for her calm dismissal. Most people tend to engage with Tyler’s bullshit, giving him exactly the reaction he wants. Emma just shuts him down completely.
He looks like he wants to say more, but a nearby cluster of team executives glance our way, reminding him where we are.
“Whatever,” he mutters, his gaze hardening as it meets mine. “Just remember what I told you about Mitchell’s history with physical therapists, Em. History repeats.”
With that parting shot, he turns and stalks away, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.
Emma’s hand drops from my arm, her expression closing off. “I should go,” she murmurs.
“Wait.” I catch her wrist gently. “Don’t let him ruin your night.”
“He already has.” She glances around the crowded ballroom, looking trapped. “I don’t belong here anyway.”
“Neither do I.” I gesture to my crutches and formal attire. “Hard to mingle when you’re one wrong move away from face-planting into the canapés.”
That earns a small smile, which I count as a victory.
“Seriously, though, let’s get some air. The terrace should be quieter.”
Emma hesitates, then nods. “Five minutes. Then I really do need to leave.”
The terrace is blissfully empty, the air crisp but not uncomfortable. Strings of white lights twinkle overhead, providing just enough illumination to see without spoiling the view of Pinewood spread out below us.
Emma moves to the stone railing, wrapping her arms around herself against the slight chill. I shrug out of my tuxedo jacket and drape it over her shoulders before she can protest.
“Such a gentleman,” she teases, but she pulls the jacket tighter around her.
“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
She laughs softly, the sound warming something in my chest. We stand in companionable silence for a moment.
“I’m sorry about Tyler,” I finally say. “He’s a piece of work.”
“Not your fault.” Emma stares out at the city lights. “I should have expected something like this when I took the job with the Bears.”
“He mentioned my ‘history with physical therapists,’” I say carefully. “I’m guessing that’s come up before?”
She glances at me, then away. “Jackson warned me too. There were rumors…”
“That I had an inappropriate relationship with my former PT, got her fired when it went south, and was using her for pain meds.” I finish the sentence for her, keeping my voice calm despite the anger that still simmers whenever the topic arises.
“Something like that.”
I lean against the railing, taking weight off my bad knee. “Want to know what really happened?”
She turns to face me fully, her expression guarded but curious. “If you want to tell me.”
The fact that she doesn’t immediately assume the worst means more than it should.
“Her name was Amber Johnson,” I begin. “I was eighteen, just drafted, first serious injury of my career. She was thirty-six and my team-assigned physical therapist.”
I pause, gathering my thoughts. “She started with small things: comments about my physique, unnecessary contact during therapy, texts after hours. I was young, flattered by the attention from an attractive older woman. Didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.”
Emma’s expression softens. “She took advantage of you.”
“Yeah.” The simple acknowledgment eases something tight in my chest. “When I finally tried to establish boundaries, she threatened to tell the team I’d been pressuring her for painkillers. Said no one would believe my version over hers.”
“What did you do?”
