Page 100 of Check & Chase
“Dad, stop interrogating my girlfriend and get in here.” Chase’s voice carries from the living room, rough with exhaustion but firm with authority.
The word ‘girlfriend’ hangs in the air. Richard’s expression darkens, while Patricia’s face lights up with delight.
Inside, Patricia immediately gravitates toward Chase, her maternal instincts overriding any social awkwardness. She gasps at the sight of his battered face, her hands fluttering over his injuries without quite touching, as if her love alone could heal him.
“Oh, Chase. Look at you. My poor baby.”
Richard takes a different approach, standing at the edge of the room with his arms crossed like a general surveying a battlefield. “You didn’t even tell us about the first injury—all that rehab you kept quiet. And now? You wreck it again before you’re even cleared to play? For what? A Wolves player?”
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. The criticism hits like a physical blow, not just at Chase but at me—the implication clear that I’m somehow responsible for his poor decisions.
“Richard.” Patricia’s voice holds the warning tone of a woman accustomed to managing her husband’s moods.
“No, he needs to hear this.” Richard advances into the room. “Do you have any idea what this will do to your contract negotiations? Your season is effectively over. For what? Some misplaced sense of chivalry?”
Chase’s jaw tightens, muscles working beneath the bruised skin, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Years of dealing with his father’s criticism have taught him restraint. “Jackson Anderson is Emma’s brother. Tyler West was targeting him with a dirty hit.”
“So? That’s hockey. Players target each other all the time.”
“Not like this. It was deliberate intent to injure.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve jeopardized your entire career for someone who isn’t even on your team.” Richard’s gaze shifts to me, accusation burning in his eyes. “Because ofher.”
The words hit like a slap. I feel my face flush with a mixture of anger and shame, the familiar voice in my head agreeing that yes, this is my fault, that I’ve somehow corrupted the golden boy and destroyed his future.
“That’s enough.” Chase struggles to sit up straighter, pain flickering across his features. “Emma is not responsible for my choices. I saw a dirty hit coming and reacted. End of story.”
The conversation continues, but I find myself retreating into the kitchen under the pretense of checking medication schedules. The space offers blessed relief from his dad’s disapproval.
Chase’s kitchen reflects his personality—modern and masculine, but with touches of warmth that speak to his hidden depths. Copper pots hang from a rack above the island, and the refrigerator is covered with photos and ticket stubs from travels and achievements. It’s the kitchen of someone who might not cook often but appreciates quality when he does.
Patricia seems to follows me, her presence immediately softening the awkward atmosphere.
“Don’t mind his dad,” she says, her voice gentle as she locates the coffee maker. “He shows concern through criticism. Always has.”
“He doesn’t sound concerned. Just really angry.”
She sighs, measuring out coffee grounds. “Richard had his own hockey career cut short by injury. Seeing Chase hurt brings back painful memories.”
The explanation doesn’t excuse his behavior, but it provides context—a glimpse into the family dynamics that shaped Chase into the man he is.
“You really care for him, don’t you?” She pauses in her coffee preparation, studying me with eyes that miss nothing. “This isn’t just some casual thing.”
The question catches me off guard with its directness. In the Mitchell family, apparently, subtlety is not a valued trait.
“I… yes. I do.”
“Good.” She nods decisively, her approval warming me more than I expected. “Chase needs someone who’ll stand up for him, even to us. Especially to his father.”
Richard appears in the kitchen before I can respond, his expression still stormy with disapproval and paternal worry.
“We’re going to the hotel. Chase needs rest, not visitors.”
“But we just got here,” Patricia protests, her disappointment clear.
“And we can come back tomorrow when he’s had time to think about his poor life choices.” He fixes me with a hard stare that could freeze water. “You’ll see to his medical needs?”
“Of course.” I meet his gaze steadily, drawing on every ounce of professional confidence I possess. “I can manage both his concussion and knee injury.”
