Page 94 of Check & Chase
“I love you, you reckless idiot. Don’t you dare leave me now.”
His fingers tighten around mine immediately, and I cling to that response as we move through the arena’s service corridors toward the waiting ambulance. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker intermittently, casting moving shadows that seem to chase us down the hallway.
Our fake relationship ended the moment he went over those boards. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
No more pretending.
Chase
Nineteen
Pain splits my head in two before I even open my eyes.
Beeping machines. Antiseptic smell. The rough scratch of hospital sheets.
Fuck.
Memories filter back in jagged fragments: the game, Tyler positioning for a hit, Jackson being vulnerable. Then nothing but a flash of movement, impact, and darkness.
I try to lift my hand to my face but find it weighed down by something warm. When I force my eyes open, blinking against the stabbing fluorescent light, I see her. Emma, folded awkwardly in a vinyl hospital chair, her blonde hair spilling across the edge of my bed where she’s fallen asleep holding my hand.
She looks exhausted, dark circles shadowing her eyes, her clothes wrinkled like she’s been wearing them for days. Still beautiful.
How long have I been here?
I try to shift and immediately regret it as pain explodes through my skull. A groan escapes before I can stop it, and Emma jolts awake, her green eyes flying open and locking on mine.
“Chase?” Her voice is rough with sleep, but relief floods her face. “You’re awake.”
“Seems that way.” Even those few words send splinters of pain through my temple. “How bad?”
Emma straightens, professional instincts kicking in despite the exhaustion in every line of her body. “Severe concussion. Fracture to your zygomatic arch—your cheekbone. Eight stitches near your temple. And your knee…”
She trails off, and something in her expression makes my stomach drop.
“Tell me.”
“You tore your meniscus. Significantly. You undid most of the healing from the last six weeks.”
“Shit.” I close my eyes, trying to process. “The season?”
“Let’s focus on the concussion first.”
Which means it’s bad. Really bad.
“What day is it?” The gaps in my memory are unsettling.
“Saturday. The game was Thursday night. You’ve been in and out of consciousness since then, but this is the first time you’ve been fully lucid.”
Two days. I’ve lost two fucking days.
“Tyler,” I say, fragments clicking into place. “He was lining up Jackson for a blindside hit.”
Her expression shifts, something vulnerable breaking through her composure. “Yes. You saw it before anyone else did. You went over the boards.”
The memory flashes bright: the split-second recognition of Tyler’s intent, the rage that flooded me at the thought of Emma watching her brother get hurt.
“Did I stop him?”
