Page 1 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

McKenna

I stare in disbelief at the ripped garbage bag slumped against the front door of my condo, rage churning in my stomach.

It’s one o’clock in the morning, and apparently, my ex has decided that dropping off two years worth of my personal items, without so much as a heads up, is a mature route to closure. I could kill him.

The jerk knew for a fact I’ve been out of town.

He probably dumped the bag here the second the team plane departed for Montreal last Sunday.

I’ll bet he even snapped a picture of the sad sight, as if he were a driver who needed proof of delivery even though he didn’t actually give a shit if the package got stolen.

The thoughtless return is bad enough. But I’m running on fumes after landing an hour ago from a grueling late-season, seven-game road trip.

Dragging two suitcases, a backpack, and a cooler up my front steps in the dark when my spine feels as if it’s fused into one cranky rod.

The fact that one of my favorite sweatshirts is hanging half out of the flimsy plastic is the final buzzer on this shitshow of a month.

I nudge the bag with my foot, the crinkle silencing the chirping crickets in the dark. My ex is hella lucky no desert critters scurry out or else he’d be getting an earful. He just might anyway. I’m that pissed off.

Three minutes later, I’ve hauled everything inside. I kick off my sneakers, roll my shoulders, and abandon my suitcases in the front hallway next to the bag. I’m too tired to unpack. Too hungry to think straight. And too emotionally fried to pretend this doesn’t sting.

I know better than to let myself get this depleted. Hunger plus exhaustion is how cravings win. How mistakes happen. How you end up sobbing into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and calling it dinner.

But tonight? I don’t care. I go straight for the Pinot Grigio. The one in the back of my fridge my brother sent from Napa when he was wine-tasting with his best friend, a Silicon Valley tech bro, in March. I’ve been saving the bottle for a special occasion. Tonight qualifies. Especially now.

Five minutes later, I’ve poured myself a generous glass, changed into my jammies, and sunk onto my couch with the grace of a wounded water buffalo.

I should eat a real meal. But first, I give myself five minutes for a quick social media check, the mindless scroll calling my name like a drug dealer in a dark alley.

And that’s when I see it.

Emmitt’s post.

A loft-style living room with exposed brick I don't recognize. Dim lighting. A reclaimed-wood coffee table with two wine glasses and a blonde in a crop top doing that fake candid laugh thing where her head’s thrown back just enough to show off her perfectly contoured cheekbones, one manicured hand reaching for a wine glass as if she’s starring in a lifestyle blog about effortless elegance .

The caption reads: “Finally found my person ??”

My heart kicks in my chest.

Finally found my person.

This from the man who broke up with me three and a half weeks ago because I was “too focused on work” and “didn’t prioritize our relationship.”

Apparently, his new person fits the bill. She probably doesn’t spend her free time researching the latest sports nutrition studies instead of shopping or doing yoga or whatever gorgeous blondes do. She probably lights candles and takes baths and doesn’t fall asleep reading peer-reviewed journals.

I drain my glass and rub the scar on my chin.

Dinner. I need dinner before I commit a felony.

I open the delivery app on my phone and click on the twenty-four-hour Chinese-Mexican fusion place down the street that caters to the Old Town, late-night, bar-hopping crowd.

One orange chicken burrito lands in my cart, but I add extra veggies and sub brown rice for white.

Because ordering a straight sodium- and msg-loaded gut bomb when I lecture professional athletes about the importance of good nutrition for a living feels like admitting defeat.

After the confirmation comes through, I pour myself another glass of wine and stare at my ex’s post some more. And read the comments. Friends congratulating the jerk as if he wasn’t single for less than twenty-four days.

As if I were a two-year warmup.

I open my contacts and scroll to his name.

Smart McKenna would have deleted his contact entirely instead of just demoting him from favorites.

But no. After he fed me that whole ‘we can still be friends’ bullshit, which actually translates to ‘save my number for when I want to hit you up for playoff tickets,’ I apparently lost all ability to set healthy boundaries.

So I didn’t delete him. He’s still there.

Emmitt Wilson—ex-boyfriend, condiment thief, complete jerkwad.

Right below the other Emmitt in my phone.

Emmitt Buckley—Phoenix Freeze team captain, star forward, walking HR violation.

My finger stills. Professional contacts are mixed with personal ones thanks to a team-funded phone, making me accessible to the players twenty-four seven.

Emmitt Buckley is the last man on earth I should think about tonight.

His melt-your-panties-right-off-your-body smile is the reason I stare at his shoulder during meetings.

Avoiding his chiseled six-pack abs is my motivation for steering clear of the hallway between the rink and the locker room after practice.

He’s the hometown player, a local fan favorite, and a charming dirty blond who’s completely off-limits. Team policy. No dating players. Full stop.

Not that he dates. Ever. Although, I can’t help but wonder the kind of woman he’d go for if he did.

And yet, he asks about my weekend as if he genuinely wants to know, lingers after our meetings with follow-up questions about recovery nutrition as if my answers actually matter, and he makes me feel like the smartest person in the building.

I don’t get that feeling very often. Especially not from my ex, who I’m half certain only dated me because of my connection to the team.

Still, this moment isn’t about fantasy. It’s about closure. Catharsis. Possibly revenge. A voice memo or two. Because I’m fortified by the wine and done being polite.

I click Emmitt’s name, hit the button to record, and go for it. What do I have to lose?

“You know what, Emmitt? I’ve been thinking about our relationship , and I realized something.”

Sip. Deep breath as I channel my fury.

“You never actually wanted me. You wanted a social-media-ready version of me. A polished, enthusiastic-but-not-too-passionate McKenna who looked good on paper but wouldn’t be too demanding in real life.”

I send it. Then, start the next one.

“You didn’t want a woman with real opinions and actual goals and weird snack habits. You wanted someone who would blend herself into your life. A girlfriend-shaped accessory. A woman who matches your wanna-be athletic aesthetic and sure as hell doesn’t talk too loud.”

Send. I jump up and start pacing.

“But hey—congrats on the upgrade. I hope your new person prioritizes you. I hope she makes your ego breakfast in bed and suggests hot sauce for your eggs so that it reminds you of me. And I hope she never, ever achieves anything that doesn’t include you.

Because, hey, from the picture it sure seems that after twenty-four days she’s got you wrapped around her little finger. ”

Send. Feels good. One more. I can’t help myself.

“Oh, and stealing my garlic parmesan sauce? That was petty, even for you. You don’t steal a woman’s condiments. That’s breakup 101.”

Send.

I lied. But last one this time. Really.

“Also, I faked it that time. You know the one. On the floor. With the playlist you swore was ‘romantic’ but included Nickelback. I wish I could somehow erase that entire train wreck of a night from my mind.”

I send it off, letting it fly into the digital void. Then I toss aside my phone and flop back onto the couch, emotionally lighter and ready to drown in tangy orange sauce.

The food arrives. I tip too much and eat too fast and let the fortune cookie replace the ache in my chest. For the first time in weeks, I feel vindicated. Empowered. As if I finally said everything I needed to say.

I should go to bed. Instead, I start scrolling again.

Twenty minutes pass. No response. Which is typical Emmitt behavior, honestly. He’s probably too busy with his person to deal with his ex-girlfriend’s wine-fueled breakdown.

It doesn’t matter. This was about closure, not conversation. I said my piece, and now I can move on with my—

Wait.

My blood turns to ice.

My gaze lands on the top of the message thread, my hands suddenly shaking.

The name doesn’t say Emmitt Wilson.

It says Emmitt Buckley.

The contact photo stares back at me. Messy dark blond hair, icy blue eyes, that grin that derails my focus during team meetings.

I sent my post-breakup rant to the team captain.

My heart beats so loud I’m one thousand percent sure my neighbors hear it pounding through our paper-thin walls.

I sent four—no, make that five—unhinged voice memos to Emmitt Buckley. The guy I’ve spent two years trying to avoid. The franchise player who led the team to the Stanley Cup semi-finals last year. The hometown favorite whose easy laugh makes my stomach flip.

A man so completely, professionally, catastrophically off-limits just thinking about him probably violates three different sections of the employee handbook.

My lungs stop working.

I frantically scroll down through the voice memos, my hands shaking harder.

Oh, God.

They definitely sent. I bury my face in a couch cushion and scream.

This is exactly the kind of scandal that gets team staff blacklisted from professional sports. Just last month, a trainer at the Boston Blades got fired for “inappropriate conduct” with a player. And all she did was like his Instagram posts.

I fought three hundred applicants for this job.

I have a master’s degree, four certifications, and zero tolerance for career-ending mistakes.

The employee handbook has an entire section about “maintaining professional boundaries.” HR drilled it into our heads during orientation and makes us sign a Conflict of Interest form every June before contract renewals.

And now, I’ve unloaded my emotional baggage on the one man whose undivided attention makes me forget basic nutritional facts I’ve known since high school.

My phone is still silent. No response.

Which is worse than if he’d replied immediately. The silence means he’s horrified, confused, or…

Figuring out how to report me to management.

I’ll have to resign. Tonight. I’ll email my two weeks’ notice from this couch and never show my face at the team facility again.

Except I can’t do that. I love my job. And I’m damn good at it. I grab my phone, start typing an apology, then delete it.

What do you even say? “Sorry for the emotional word-vomit. Please pretend it never happened”?

Instead, I turn off my phone and pray by morning, this will all be a wine-soaked nightmare.

That somehow, magically, those voice memos will disappear into the digital void as if they were never sent.

As if read receipts are just a cruel myth.

As if the internet has a mercy button I’ll miraculously find.