Page 80 of Check & Chase
Her amusement fades. “You know she’s scared, right? Of getting hurt again. Tyler did a number on her confidence.”
“I know. I’m not Tyler.”
“No, you’re not. You’re potentially worse.”
“Excuseme?”
“Tyler was an obvious asshole. Emma knew what she was getting, even if she ignored the red flags. You’re different. You seem genuine, caring. You make grand gestures like building ice rinks.”
I frown. “How is that worse?”
“Because if you hurt her, it’ll destroy her.” Maya’s eyes are deadly serious. “She’s invested, Chase. More than she wants to admit. So if this is just some conquest—”
“It’s not,” I interrupt firmly. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
After a long moment, she nods. “Okay. I’ll help you with the ice rink.”
“I heard an interesting rumor today,” Mr. Peterson says, crossing paths with me outside the medical suite. “About Ms. Anderson’s treatment protocols for your injury.”
I slow my pace. “What kind of rumor?”
“That she’s accelerating your recovery timeline. Giving you preferential treatment because of your… personal relationship.”
Anger flashes through me. “That’s bullshit. Emma is the most professional PT I’ve worked with. She pushes me harder than anyone else would.”
“West seems to think otherwise.”
Of course. Tyler fucking West.
“West is bitter because Emma chose me over him. His opinion on her professional capabilities means nothing.”
He studies me. “Ms. Anderson’s reputation is important to this organization. As is the integrity of our medical protocols.”
“Then maybe consider the source of these rumors before lending them credibility. Emma deserves better than to have her professional judgment questioned based on locker room gossip.”
“Perhaps. For what it’s worth, I’ve observed nothing in her documentation that suggests impropriety. But perception matters, Mitchell.”
“I understand. But Emma shouldn’t suffer because of perception. She’s too good at what she does.”
Peterson nods slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll have a word with West about spreading unsubstantiated rumors.”
“Thank you. And Mr. Peterson? Emma doesn’t need to know about this conversation.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Protecting her?”
“She has enough to worry about without adding this to the list.”
The conversation is still simmering when I reach the practice rink for my scheduled observation session. Movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention. Emma, clipboard in hand, is walking along the perimeter of the rink, observing another player’s skating motion.
Until she isn’t.
I see the moment it happens—the subtle shift in her expression, the tightening of her shoulders. She’s too close to the ice, the white surface triggering something that transforms confident Ms. Anderson into frightened fifteen-year-old Emma.
She takes a step back, then another, her breathing visibly accelerating. No one else seems to notice—the coaches focused on drills, other medical staff engrossed in their observations.
Without conscious thought, I’m moving, navigating the stairs faster than my knee appreciates. By the time I reach her, Emma has pressed herself against the wall, her clipboard clutched to her chest, eyes fixed on the ice with the thousand-yard stare of someone reliving trauma.
“Emma.” I keep my voice low, positioning myself between her and the ice. “Hey, look at me.”
