Page 92 of Check & Chase
Could she be right?
The game begins with the intensity of a lit fuse. These teams don’t need time to build animosity; it exists from the first whistle, born from years of rivalry and personal grudges. Jackson takes the opening face-off against Donovan, their mutual dislike evident in the aggressive set of their shoulders, the way they crowd each other before the puck even drops.
The first period unfolds in a blur of controlled violence. Bodies crash into boards with bone-jarring force, skates carve aggressive patterns in the ice, and tempers simmer just below the surface. The physicality increases with each shift, the referees allowing minor infractions to slide in the name of letting them play.
As the period winds down, my attention keeps drifting to Chase’s increasingly tense posture. His knuckles are white where they grip the boards, his jaw clenched as he watches his teammates battle without him. There’s something almost painful about watching him forced to be a spectator to the sport that defines him.
The intermission brings blessed quiet, though my mother and Maya fill it with invasive questions about my relationship status that I deflect.
“So when’s the real first date going to happen?” Maya asks with false innocence. “Now that the fake dating charade is becoming less fake by the day.”
The question lodges in my chest like a physical weight. Because somewhere between the first lie we told and this moment, the pretense becamereality. The realization settles over me with startling clarity: I love him. Against all logic, against professional ethics, against every wall I’ve built around my heart.
I love Chase Mitchell.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
The second period erupts with renewed intensity. Five minutes in, the Bears strike first on a power play goal that sends their section into delirium. The celebration is short-lived as the Wolves press harder, desperation sharpening their play into something dangerous.
Midway through the period, I notice Tyler’s behavior shifting. He’s hunting Jackson specifically, shadowing him across the ice with predatory focus. There’s something deliberate about his positioning, something that makes my skin crawl with recognition.
Late in the period, it happens.
Tyler shadows Jackson as he carries the puck toward center ice, but there’s a shift in his weight, a subtle angle of his shoulders that I recognize from years of watching hockey—the stance that signals intent. He’s not going for the puck. He’s going for my brother.
Time slows to crystalline clarity. I can see Tyler’s trajectory, Jackson’s vulnerability, the inevitable collision that will send my brother crashing into the boards with devastating force.
I’m on my feet before conscious thought takes hold, screaming a warning that gets lost in the crowd noise: “Jackson! Look out!”
But someone else sees it too.
Chase, watching from the bench with the intensity of a hawk, recognizes the same stance, the same inevitable conclusion. Without hesitation, without thought for his recovering knee or the consequences, he vaults over the boards and onto the ice.
No helmet. No gloves. No protection except the desperate need to prevent what’s about to happen.
He collides with Tyler at full speed, their bodies meeting with a sickening crack that echoes through the arena. The impact sends both men tumbling across the ice in a tangle of limbs, but Chase takes the worst ofit. His unprotected head strikes the ice with a sound that cuts through every other noise—sharp, final, terrifying.
The arena falls into shocked silence before exploding into chaos. Players converge from all directions, officials blow whistles, coaches shout instructions that no one can hear over the roar of thousands of people all reacting at once.
But all I can see is Chase, motionless on the ice, a dark stain spreading beneath his head like spilled ink on white paper.
Blood.
My body moves before my mind can catch up, terror overriding everything: my fear of the ice, professional protocol, security barriers. Nothing matters except reaching him, except the man I love lying broken on the surface that destroyed my dreams.
“Emma, wait!” Maya’s voice seems to come from underwater.
I’m pushing past people, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird. The ice looms before me—that gleaming surface of nightmares and shattered aspirations—but Chase is there, hurt, bleeding, and suddenly my phobia seems insignificant compared to his need.
My feet hit the ice and panic flares. My body remembers everything: the fall, the crack of bone, the white-hot agony of dreams ending. But I push through it, forcing one foot in front of the other, ice spray kicking up behind me as I run toward the huddle of medical staff surrounding Chase.
“Let me through!” My voice cuts through the chaos with medical authority. “I’m the PT!”
The team medics part reluctantly, their faces grim as they work to stabilize his neck. He lies eerily still, his face ghostly pale beneath a mask of blood that looks black under the lights. The contrast is stark—his dark hair against the white ice, the crimson spreading like a halo around his head.
“Chase,” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside him. The ice soaks through my jeans immediately, shockingly cold against my skin. “Chase, baby, can you hear me?”
No response. Just the shallow rise and fall of his chest, barely visible beneath the medical equipment they’re strapping around him.
