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

McKenna

W hitney’s apartment smells like vanilla.

But tonight the scent isn’t comforting. It’s cloying.

And mixed with my anxiety, it’s creating such suffocating sweetness my stomach churns.

But I can’t go home. Chances are good Emmitt will show up there tonight and pound on my door, and I highly doubt my ability to resist opening it.

To prevent relying on willpower that is less likely to show up than a monsoon in August, I’m curled into the corner of Whitney’s oversized sectional, surrounded by a graveyard of empty tea mugs, watching the Freeze in a nailbiter on live TV.

Or, more accurately, watching Emmitt implode on national television.

I’ve been picking at my cuticles for the past hour then chastising myself for doing so. But I’m back at it now, thanks to the penalty he just took. It was so unlike him I actually flinched. Emmitt doesn’t lose his cool. Ever.

He’s the steady one, the captain who keeps everyone grounded when the pressure gets intense. The pass he missed to Petrov earlier? He could make that blindfolded. The breakaway he botched in the first period? That’s the kind of shot he buries ninety percent of the time.

But that check just now? That was pure frustration boiling over.

The camera catches him in the penalty box, slamming his stick against the boards, and my chest feels as if it’s filled with shards of glass.

Through the TV speakers, the crowd’s angry roar fills Whitney’s living room.

The announcer’s voice cuts through it. “Another uncharacteristic mistake from Buckley tonight. The Freeze captain seems completely off his game.”

You can say that again. And chances are good it’s my fault. Well, not all my fault, since it took two to tango last night. But my radio silence is affecting his game. His focus. Everything he’s worked for.

“Jesus,” I mutter, setting down my mug. The chamomile tea has gone cold anyway. The cup joins the others abandoned on the coffee table, evidence of the hours I’ve hidden here like a fugitive.

My phone sits silently beside me, face down.

There have been twenty-four missed calls and texts from Emmitt since this afternoon.

Each notification made my stomach drop further, but I couldn’t risk responding.

Not when Linda made it clear I’d be better off lying low, until she determines if there’s any chance of finding another way.

If there even is another way.

The announcer continues his play-by-play. “Derek Burke is having to cover more ice tonight to compensate for his captain’s struggles. You can see the frustration on the bench…”

I grab my phone, and click through to my message thread with Emmitt.

The texts today started with desperate concern and ended in frustration that I wasn’t responding.

The last thing I sent him was when I texted Thank you with a red heart after he sent me that book and hot sauce.

The emoji stares up at me now like evidence of my professional downfall.

I scroll up through our messages, all the way to Who’s this Emmitt asshole? Send me his address and I’ll handle the rest. How in the world did we gow from that playful protection to this nightmare in a matter of days? I couldn’t tell you, but we did. So here I am.

The game ends with Emmitt benched in the final minute. Benched. The franchise player who led them to the Stanley Cup semi-finals last year, sitting on the bench during crunch time because he couldn’t keep it together.

I turn off the TV and bury my face in my hands, trying not to think about how he’s feeling right now. How all of this—thanks to my wrong number voice memos—is turning his world upside down right before playoffs.

I must have dozed off because the sound of Whitney’s key in the lock wakes me with a start, my neck stiff from sleeping curled against the arm of her couch.

“Okay,” Whitney says, dropping her bag and keys on the counter and kicking off her shoes as she eyes the collection of mugs then plops next to me. “Spill. Everything. Now.”

She’s still in her team polo, hair falling out of what was a neat bun when I saw her earlier, and there’s exhaustion written all over her face.

Of course, there is. She just spent hours dealing with post-game recovery for a team that’s probably buzzing with speculation about their captain’s meltdown.

“How bad was it after the game?” I ask instead of answering her question, my voice hoarse.

Her head dips from side to side as she considers the question. “Worse than when Conner shot the puck into our own net against Vegas last month. Not as bad as when Burke went ballistic on that defender from Seattle.”

“Yeah,” I scoff, “because everyone expects that from Derek. It’s nothing new.”

“Coach pulled Emmitt aside after the game. I saw them heading down the hallway to his office, and let me tell you, it didn’t look good.”

Shit.

She pauses, her face scrunching. “But that’s not even the worst part. When I was wrapping Connor tonight, he asked me if I knew why you left early today.”

“Really?”

“And Petrov mentioned you seemed ‘off’ when you talked to him this morning about hydration—”

“I saw him right after I came out of Linda’s office. I told him to down at least twenty ounces of electrolytes.”

She shakes her head, dismissing the details of my recommendation. “Derek flat out asked me where you were.”

My stomach plummets. “What did you tell him?”

“That you had a family thing come up, which of course he didn’t buy.”

I suck in a shaky breath, guilt washing over me for dragging my best friend into this mess. Whitney doesn’t deserve to be put in the position of covering for my poor judgment. “They didn’t?”

“Of course not. You’re never MIA. Then with Emmitt’s disaster of a performance tonight… Let’s just say, there’s speculation the events aren’t exactly a coincidence.”

I flop back against the couch cushions, the tea in my stomach curdling.

Her voice is gentle but firm. “Now, tell me what the hell happened with Linda this morning.”

“She knows,” I say simply, rubbing my scar.

“What do you mean, she knows?”

“Emmitt asked for a copy of the team handbook yesterday.”

“So?”

“When Linda went into the shared drive to print it for him, she could see that I was in the document, too. My cursor highlighting the section about staff conduct.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. She said it was a little fishy we were looking at the same policy section on the same day.” I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “She didn’t ask for confirmation, though. Said if she did, she’d be professionally obligated to take action based on the answer.”

“It’s a good thing she loves you for helping her kick that Diet Coke habit.”

“That bit of goodwill likely saved me from getting fired. At least, for a day or two.”

“But what now? Do you cut it off with Emmitt?”

The thought rips open a new crater in my chest. “I don’t know. Maybe. She said there might be another option, but she needs time to research it.”

“What do you mean, another option? One where you two could be together?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t give me details because she doesn’t want to get my hopes up before she’s sure it’s possible.” I meet Whitney’s eyes. “But she warned me I need to be careful before it’s too late.”

“Before it’s too late for what?”

“I think before whatever she’s researching becomes impossible. Like maybe there’s a window for…something. But I don’t know what.”

Whitney tugs the hair tie out of her bun, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. “You can’t lie low for much longer, or people are definitely going to know something’s up.”

She’s right, but—

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She tugs it out and turns the screen to show me who’s calling. I stare at the device as if it might explode because it’s none other than Emmitt Buckley.

“It’s…Emmitt,” she says, as if my entire body hasn’t already gone stiff.

The blood drains from my face. “Don’t answer it. I can’t talk to him right now. Even on your phone. Especially on your phone.”

“He’ll just call back.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, a minute after the buzzing stops, a text comes through. She reads the message aloud: “Where are you?”

I was right. He went to my place. I knew he would, and sure enough, he drove straight there after that disaster of a game, looking for answers I can’t give him.

“I don’t think he’s talking to me,” Whitney says, as if it’s not obvious. I shoot her a look, and she tosses back a wide grin. “What? Do you think he is?”

I throw a pillow at her, but a small slice of me is grateful for the humor. “Of course not.”

Whitney’s phone buzzes again. She reads it to me. “‘You picked the right Emmitt that night. This one’s not giving up.’”

Damn him and his loyalty. His determination.

“McKenna,” Whitney says softly, dragging me back to the present. “You sure you can’t talk to him?”

“No,” I reply, jumping up to clear my mugs if only to put some space between me and the lifeline to the man who’s digging in his heels. For us.

I can’t crack. Not now, when everything is up in the air. “I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know if there really is another option.”

“Even if it means he keeps playing like he did tonight?”

My steps falter, but resolve hardens my core. “Yes, because then, maybe, he’ll realize this…fling was a mistake before it destroys both of our careers.”

Whitney scrambles up to follow me to the kitchen. “You don’t actually believe that. Especially not after that second text.”

She’s right. I don’t. Last night, Emmitt made it crystal clear I’m the furthest thing from a reckless impulse he’s ever had.

“Text him back,” I say finally, my voice barely a whisper as I deposit an armful of mugs on the counter. “Tell him…I need time and space.”

“McKenna—”

“Please, Whitney. I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess, but please. Just…please.”

She looks as if she wants to argue, but something in my desperate expression stops her. Instead, she types.

The response comes almost immediately, and Whitney’s lips curl into a smile.

“What?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“He says you’ve got twenty-four hours and not a second more.”

Damn him. Why does he have to make this so much harder than it has to be? Why can’t he be like every other guy who’s decided I’m too much work when the going gets tough? Why can’t he cut his losses now?

I’m not sure one day is enough time, but there’s nothing more I can do tonight. All I can do is pray Linda can figure out whether this mysterious option she alluded to has a real shot or is just false hope. Because Emmitt Buckley doesn’t seem as if he’ll give up on me.