"Pain is just weakness leaving the body."

At least that's what my father always said—and right now, as my knee threatens to buckle beneath me on a routine crossover, I'm calling bullshit on that particular piece of fatherly wisdom.

I grit my teeth and push through the drill anyway, because that's what Mitchell men do. We don't show pain. We don't acknowledge weakness. We sure as hell don't sit out practice because of a "little sprain."

"Again!" Coach Barrett shouts, blowing his whistle with entirely too much enthusiasm. "Mitchell, tighten up that left turn!"

I nod, swallowing the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove that whistle. The ice beneath my skates feels particularly unforgiving today, each stride sending a jolt of pain up my leg. But I've been playing through this for weeks now. What's another practice?

"You look like shit," Donovan says as he skates past me. "Still not getting that knee checked out?"

I flash him my signature Chase Mitchell grin, the one that's gotten me out of speeding tickets. "Don't worry about me, Donny. I'm indestructible."

He rolls his eyes. "You're an idiot is what you are."

Maybe he's right. But hockey is all I have. It's the only thing in my life that's ever made sense, the only place where I truly belong. I'm not about to let a small sprain take that away from me.

"Line up!" Coach yells, and we fall into formation for shooting drills.

I find my spot, trying to ignore the way my knee protests even the simple act of standing still. My gaze drifts up to the observation window of the medical room. Usually empty during morning practices, but today someone's there. A woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, watching the ice with an intensity that catches my attention.

Something about her seems familiar, but I can't place her.

The whistle blows, yanking me back to the present. I take my turn in the shooting drill, firing a slapshot that whizzes past our goalie's glove. The twisting motion sends a bolt of agony through my knee that nearly drops me.

"Fuck," I mutter, catching myself on my stick.

West skates by, smirking. "Knee acting up again, Mitchell? Maybe you should sit this season out. I can replace you."

Tyler West. The bane of my existence since I joined the Bears. He's had it out for me from day one, for reasons I've never understood. Though I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I took his spot on the first line.

Or maybe it's because I had his ex-girlfriend come all over my fingers at last year's championship party. That might be a factor.

I suppress a grin at the memory. Not that I knew she was his ex at the time. Emma never mentioned it, and I certainly wasn't asking questions when I had her pressed against that bookshelf, her dress hiked up and her lips on mine.

"In your dreams, West," I reply, straightening up. "The day I let you take my ice time is the day I hang up my skates for good."

His eyes narrow, but he skates away without another word. Typical.

Practice drags on for another forty-five minutes. By the end, I'm sweating not just from exertion but from the effort of hiding my pain. When Coach finally blows the final whistle, it takes everything in me not to visibly sag with relief.

"Good session, boys," Coach says as we gather around. "Few announcements before you hit the shower. First, our new physical therapist starts today. Ms. Anderson comes highly recommended, so I expect you all to show some respect."

A few of the guys snicker. We've been through three PTs in the past year.

"Second," Coach continues, shooting a glare at the ones laughing, "some of you have mandatory medical check-ins this afternoon." His eyes land on me. "Mitchell, you're at two. Non-negotiable."

I open my mouth to protest, but the look he gives me shuts me down.

"And before you try to charm your way out of it," he adds, "Peterson said if you miss this one, you're benched for Friday's game."

That gets my attention. Friday is our first home game of the season.

"Fine," I mutter. "I'll be there."

The guys disperse, heading for the locker room, but I linger on the ice. This is my favorite part of practice—when everyone else is gone and it's just me and the empty rink.

As I round the far side, I glance up at the medical room window again. The blonde woman is still there, watching. When she realizes I've spotted her, she steps back quickly, disappearing from view.

Something about her reaction tugs at my memory. The way she moved, the flash of blonde hair and green eyes...

No. It couldn't be.

After a shower and some ibuprofen, I stretch out on one of the treatment tables, icing my knee while scrolling through my phone. The team nutritionist drops off my protein shake, and I thank her with a wink that makes her blush.

"Shameless," Donovan comments from the next table over.

I shrug. "Just being friendly."

"Mitchell!"

I look up to find Coach standing in the doorway, arms crossed. "Your appointment is in fifteen minutes. Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I reply, sliding off the table.

The walk to the medical wing gives my knee time to stiffen up again. By the time I reach the doorway marked "Physical Therapy," I'm masking a significant limp.

The plan is simple: flash the smile, downplay the pain, agree to whatever treatment plan they suggest, and then continue doing exactly what I've been doing.

I push open the door without knocking. The treatment room is empty, no sign of the new PT yet. Perfect. I can get comfortable and control the situation when they arrive.

I take a seat on the table, testing my knee's range of motion and grimacing at the pain. When I'm alone like this, I don't have to pretend it doesn't hurt. And it hurts like a motherfucker.

I hear voices approaching outside the door. Quickly, I straighten up and plaster on my most charming smile, ready to work my magic on whoever walks through that door.

The door opens, and Peterson enters first. "Mitchell," he says with a nod. "Good to see you actually showed up."

"Coach made it clear I didn't have a choice," I reply, eyes drifting to the doorway behind him, waiting for my new torturer to appear.

"Smart man." He gestures toward the hallway. "You'll be working with Ms. Anderson today. She's new, but she specializes in knee injuries. I expect you to listen to her recommendations."

"Don't I always?" I ask with my most innocent expression.

He snorts. "Never." He turns toward the doorway. "Ms. Anderson? Your patient is ready."

And then she steps in, and my entire world tilts on its axis.

Holy shit.

Emma. My Emma. The girl who disappeared after the best night of my life. The one who blocked my number. The one I've thought about more times than I'd ever admit out loud.

Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Green eyes that widen fractionally when they meet mine.

She doesn't look exactly the same as she did at the party—no smoky makeup, no sinfully tight dress—but somehow this version of her, all buttoned-up in a crisp white blouse and pencil skirt, is equally captivating.

If it weren't for the slight tremble in her fingers and the flush creeping up her neck, I might think I'd imagined our encounter.

"I'll leave you to it," Peterson says, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "Mitchell, behave yourself."

The door closes behind him, leaving us alone. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I drink her in, noting the changes from a year ago. Her hair is lighter, like she's spent time in the sun. Her posture is more rigid. But her lips are the same—full and pink and currently pressed into a tight line of displeasure.

"Well." I can't help myself. "Blondie. Isn't this interesting?"

Her composure falters for just a second before she recovers. "Mr. Mitchell," she replies. "I'm Ms. Anderson, your new physical therapist."

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "Oh, I remember exactly who you are, Emma."

Something flashes in her eyes—anger, maybe. Or embarrassment. Possibly desire. Maybe all three.

"That was a long time ago," she moves briskly to the treatment table. "This is a professional setting, and I expect you to behave accordingly."

"Always the professional," I agree, watching as she arranges her clipboard and supplies. "Though if memory serves, you weren't so concerned with professionalism when you had your tongue down my throat."

The clipboard slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor. She bends to retrieve it, and I enjoy the view until she straightens up, cheeks blazing.

"That night was a mistake," she snaps. "One I have no intention of repeating or discussing. I'm here to treat your knee injury, nothing more."

"So we're just going to pretend we've never met before?"

"That would be the appropriate approach, yes."

I lean forward, lowering my voice. "And what if I don't want to pretend?"

Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see a flicker of the Emma from that night. The one who was wild and uninhibited in my arms. But then it's gone.

"Then I'll have to request that another therapist takes over your case," she replies. "Your choice, Mr. Mitchell."

She's bluffing. I've been through enough physical therapists to know they don't just hand off patients because of personal discomfort. But something in her expression tells me she's serious about maintaining boundaries.

"Fine," I relent. "Ms. Anderson it is. For now."

Relief flickers across her features before she masks it. "Thank you." She consults her clipboard. "Now, let's discuss your injury. The file says Grade 1 MCL sprain, but you've been playing through it for several weeks?"

And just like that, we're back to therapist and patient.

"So, Emma," I murmur as she prods my knee, "how long have you been a Bears fan?"

She shoots me a warning look. "I'm not. My brother plays for the Wolves."

That catches me off guard. "The Wolves? Our biggest rivals? And you're working for us?"

A small, tight smile plays at her lips. "Life is full of surprises, Mr. Mitchell."

Don't I know it. Finding Emma again after a year of wondering what happened to her is definitely a surprise. One I intend to make the most of.

"Flex your knee, please," she instructs, her clinical tone at odds with the slight catch in her breath when her fingers brush against my skin.

I obey, watching her face carefully. "You know, I tried to contact you. After the party."

Her hands pause momentarily before continuing their assessment. "I'm aware."

"You blocked my number."

"This isn't relevant to your treatment, Mr. Mitchell."

"Chase," I correct her. "If we're going to be spending time together, you might as well use my first name."

She straightens up. "What happened between us a year ago has no bearing on your treatment."

"And if I disagree?"

She crosses her arms, fixing me with a stern look that, frankly, I find hot as hell. "Then you're welcome to request another therapist. Though I should warn you, Peterson mentioned that I'm your last chance before they bench you."

She's got me there.

"Touché, Blondie."

She winces at the nickname. "Don't call me that here."

"What should I call you then? Ms. Anderson seems so formal for someone who's had their tongue in my mouth."

Her eyes narrow. "You're doing this on purpose."

I grin. "Doing what?"

"Trying to rattle me. It won't work."

But it already is. The flush on her cheeks, the tension in her shoulders—she's not nearly as unaffected as she wants me to believe.

"I'm just reminiscing about old times," I reply innocently. "Good times, if I recall correctly. Though things did end rather abruptly."

She turns away, making a show of reviewing her notes. "I need to do some range of motion tests. Please lie back on the table."

I comply, enjoying the view as she moves around the treatment room gathering supplies.

"So, your brother plays for the Wolves. Anyone I would know?"

She hesitates, then sighs. "Jackson Anderson."

I nearly choke. "Anderson? Your brother is Jackson Anderson? The captain of the Wolves? The guy who tried to take my head off when we last played them?"

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "That's the one."

"Christ." I run a hand through my hair. "Does he know you're working for the enemy now?"

"He's not thrilled about it."

"I bet." Jackson Anderson is notorious for his hatred of the Bears. "That must make family dinners interesting."

"You have no idea." She places a hand on my knee, back to business. "I'm going to test your range of motion now. Tell me when you feel pain."

I watch her face as she works, noting the concentration in her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows. There's something captivating about seeing her in her element, confident and focused.

"So, why the Bears?" I ask as she manipulates my leg. "If your brother hates us so much, why come work here?"

She shrugs without looking up. "It was the only position available, and I needed a job."

"And it has nothing to do with unfinished business?" I press.

That gets her attention. Her eyes snap to mine. "I told you, what happened at that party was a mistake. A one-time thing that won't be repeated."

"You keep saying that, but you haven't explained why. We had chemistry, Emma. Don't tell me you didn't feel it."

Her hands still on my leg. "Chemistry doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm your physical therapist now, and anything beyond a professional relationship would be inappropriate and unethical."

"Would be," I repeat, noting her choice of words. "But it wasn't when we met at the party."

She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Can we please focus on your knee?"

"My knee's fine."

"No, it's not," she counters, pressing on a particularly tender spot that makes me wince. "Your MCL has a Grade 1 sprain, and you've been making it worse by continuing to play. If you don't take this seriously, you could end up with a full tear and surgery."

"Fine. How long?" I ask, already dreading the answer.

"One to three weeks off the ice."

"Games," I clarify. "How many games will I miss?"

She studies me for a moment. "If you follow my treatment plan exactly, and I mean exactly, you could be back on the ice for light skating in three weeks. But for games it would be five or six."

Five or six weeks. A month and a half of the season. Impossible.

"Not happening," I tell her flatly. "I'm playing Friday."

"Then you'll tear your MCL completely, require surgery, and miss the entire season instead of just part of it." Her tone leaves no room for argument. "Your choice, Chase."

The use of my first name catches me off guard. It's the first time she's said it since walking into the room, and despite the circumstances, I like how it sounds on her lips.

We stare at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Her green eyes are unwavering, challenging me to argue. And for the first time in my medical history, I find myself considering actually following a therapist's orders.

Because she's not just any therapist. She's Emma. The woman who's been lingering in the back of my mind for a year. The one who got away.

"Fine," I concede, surprising us both. "Three weeks. But then I'm back on the ice."

A smile, a real one this time, curves her lips. "We'll see how your recovery progresses."

I nod agreeably while thinking that I'll be back on the ice in a week, maybe less. I'm just telling her what she wants to hear. No way am I sitting out for three weeks. But she doesn't need to know that.

As she turns away to make notes in my chart, I find myself more intrigued than ever. Emma Anderson is a puzzle I can't quite figure out. The passionate woman from the party and this composed professional seem like two different people.

I want to know which is the real her. Or if maybe, just maybe, both are.

One thing's for certain though. These PT sessions just got a lot more interesting than I expected. And I intend to make the most of every minute.

Because while Emma might be determined to keep things strictly professional, I've never been very good at following the rules. Especially when it comes to something, or someone, I want.

And I definitely want Emma Anderson.