Page 12 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

McKenna

I force myself to breeze through the team facility as if nothing’s changed. As if my entire world wasn’t flipped upside down two hours ago when Linda offered me a lifeline I never saw coming.

Independent contractor. My own sports nutrition consulting business. The freedom to work with multiple teams, build my own protocols, maybe even write and publish a book. An option I never dreamed was possible, now may be the solution to all of my problems.

The second Linda described it, I knew. Despite the risks, despite what I’d give up—the security, the benefits, the guaranteed paycheck—I wanted it.

Not just because it could solve the issue with Emmitt, but because it’s everything I’ve been too afraid to reach for.

The chance to build something entirely mine. Using my skills and expertise.

I nod to Jorge in the hallway, forcing a smile.

The cart of pre-practice fuel options, including an assortment of bananas, granola bars, and electrolyte gummies along with beverages of all manner, feels heavier than usual as I push it toward the locker room.

Maybe, because all I can think about is Linda’s warning as I left her office.

One whiff of something amiss between Emmitt and me and this option disappears entirely.

My fingers find the small scar on my chin, rubbing it absently. The statistical probability of landing this job was 0.32%. Now, I’m considering walking away from it voluntarily. But rather than making my chest tight, the choice feels light, right.

“McKenna?”

I look up to find Assistant Coach Miller approaching, his expression creased with concern. My stomach immediately drops. Does he know? Has someone said something?

“Coach Miller.” I straighten my shoulders, channeling every ounce of professionalism I possess. “How can I help you?”

“It’s about Buckley.” My pulse spikes as he glances around, then lowers his voice. “His focus has been off the last few games. We’ve got the Bearcats tomorrow night, and I need to get to the bottom of what’s throwing him.”

Emmitt’s performance issues aren’t from dehydration or poor fueling—at least, not entirely. But I can’t assure the coach that Emmitt will be fine, even after I get a chance to talk to him.

“Of course,” I manage instead, grateful my voice sounds steady.

“I can do a comprehensive assessment—urine sample for hydration and metabolic markers, full review of his current macronutrient ratios and meal timing, plus an evaluation of his sleep and recovery nutrition protocols. That should give us a complete picture of any systemic issues affecting performance.”

Miller nods, relief evident in his expression. “Sounds good. Do whatever you need to do.”

I will because this is my job, although my heart pounds at the thought of being alone with Emmitt. Especially, with even more on the line than before. “Consider it done.”

“Perfect. Whatever it takes to get our captain back on track.” Miller’s jaw tightens.

“We can’t afford for him to be off his game, right now.

He’s already here this morning, actually—been in the weight room since eight.

Coming in a little early isn’t unusual, but two hours before practice is scheduled isn’t like him. ”

My chest constricts. Emmitt’s here? In the building already? I swallow hard. “I’ll find him and get started.”

“Good. Any chance you can have the report by the end of the day?”

“Of course.” I nod, eager to see Emmitt. To share the news. To tell the man I’m falling for there’s an option to pursue after all. A way we can be together without risk.

After dropping off the cart and grabbing my tablet, I head to the weight room.

The familiar sound of weights clanking against metal reaches me before I cross into the open space.

I smell the rubber mats and disinfectant, with that underlying scent of sweat and effort that permeates every corner of this facility.

Sure enough, Emmitt’s there, doing squats at the rack closest to the mirrored wall.

For a moment, I just watch him through the wide opening from the hallway, my breath catching at the sight.

His form is perfect—shoulders back, core engaged, controlled power in every movement as he drives up from the bottom position.

The weight on the bar has to be close to three hundred pounds, but he makes it look effortless.

His T-shirt clings to his sweaty back, defining every muscle as he moves through the rep. When he racks the weight and steps back, rolling his shoulders, I see the strain in his face, the way his jaw is clenched from more than just physical effort.

God, he’s gorgeous. Even exhausted and stressed, he’s the most compelling man I’ve ever seen. I’m so focused on watching him I don’t notice Connor until he speaks.

“Three more sets, Cap, then I’m done.”

My stomach drops when I realize Emmitt’s not alone. Connor is there, too, working through his own routine on the bench press, and from his position, he has a perfect view of me standing in the doorway like a lovesick teenager.

But this is great. Perfect, actually. Connor’s presence means Emmitt and I won’t be alone, which eliminates any possibility of crossing professional lines or giving in to the tension that’s been building between us for days.

With a witness, we’ll be forced to keep everything strictly professional—exactly what we need right now.

Emmitt glances toward the door and sees me.

Everything stops. The air, my breathing, time itself.

For a long second, we just stare at each other, and I can see everything he wants to ask written in those ice-blue eyes.

My pulse jumps, but I consciously regulate my breathing.

Hyperventilating would be a dead giveaway and one I can’t risk.

Connor racks the weight with a loud clang and sits up, breaking the spell. “Hey, McKenna. You’re here early.”

“Morning, Connor.” I force my voice to sound normal, professional. “How are you today?”

“Good, thanks. Though now that I see you, it reminds me that I’ve been meaning to ask if it’s normal to crave those weird green smoothies you make? I actually bought kale yesterday, and I’m pretty sure that means you’ve broken my brain somehow.”

“That’s actually a positive adaptation,” I say, unable to suppress a small smile. “Your tastebuds are adjusting to nutrient-dense foods. Though, I prefer to think of it as fixing your brain, not breaking it.”

Emmitt finishes his reps and straightens slowly, grabbing a towel to wipe his face.

“What can I do for you?” His voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the slight rasp as he studies me closely. I know he spoke with Linda. She told him about the option I’m facing. The question is clear as day on his face, but how can I tell him I’m going for it?

I approach slowly, hyperaware of Connor’s presence, of how every word will be scrutinized. The distance between Emmitt and I feels charged, like static electricity building before a storm. “Coach Miller requested a comprehensive performance assessment. Some concerns about recent game consistency.”

Something flickers across Emmitt’s face—guilt, maybe, or frustration. He knows exactly why his performance has suffered. His hands grip the towel tighter.

I pull a specimen cup from my kit, trying to ignore how my hands want to shake. Clinical. Professional. I can do this. “I’ll need a urine sample before practice for hydration and metabolic markers. But for now, do you have a minute to review your current nutritional framework?”

Our fingers brush as I hand him the cup, and electricity shoots straight up my arm. His breath catches, barely audible, but I hear it. Connor’s still watching, so Emmitt steps back quickly, the distance between us suddenly feeling like a chasm.

“Here?” he asks, likely wondering why we’re not heading to my office as would be normal protocol.

“No need to go to my office for this. I’ll be quick; I promise,” I reply, hoping he gets the hint.

“Fine.”

I’m grateful he doesn’t press the issue, though it’s clear he wants a minute alone.

“Great.” I take a seat on a nearby weight bench and unlock my tablet, already pulled up to Emmitt’s profile.

Connor moves to another machine while I pull out the stylus.

“Would you say you’ve maintained your standard nutritional framework, or have there been any deviations from your usual dietary patterns recently? ”

Emmitt leans against the machine and cocks an amused eyebrow at me, but with his arms crossed in front of him, I have to force myself not to stare at the way the position emphasizes his chest and shoulders.

“I’ve been sticking to the fundamentals,” he says, his gaze flicking over to Connor before swinging back to me. “Though I made some adjustments recently. Had an incredible Margherita pizza that completely changed my perspective on…optimal fueling.”

So this is how it will go. Alright, I see you. And two can play this game.

I clear my throat, hyperaware of Connor’s presence as he continues his workout routine. “In my experience, when athletes implement modifications to established routines, it can create systemic disruptions. Even beneficial changes can compromise performance if the transition isn’t properly…managed.”

“That approach isn’t always viable once an athlete has been exposed to…enhanced protocols,” Emmitt says carefully, his voice barely above normal conversation level but somehow feeling intimate.

Heat creeps up my neck. I’m conscious of how this must sound to Connor, who’s moved to a different station but is clearly within earshot.

“Enhanced protocols may work temporarily,” I reply, trying to inject more clinical distance into my tone. “But long-term implementation requires careful consideration of all variables.”

Emmitt pushes off the wall, his eyes darkening as he takes a step closer, then visibly checks himself when he glances toward Connor.

His jaw tightens with barely concealed frustration at the forced distance, his hands clenching at his sides as if he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for me, but he gives me a pointed look.

“I’m not looking for a temporary adjustment.

I want a more…permanent restructuring of my entire program. ”

My breath catches. I knew there was something between us, something unmistakable, but this declaration, so soon?

“Permanent restructuring requires…” I have to clear my throat, shooting a glance at Connor adjusting weights nearby.

“That level of systemic change demands extensive research, comprehensive planning. And complete separation during the transition phase to ensure optimal results. Then time to evaluate the changes.”

His eyes flash with understanding then with something that looks like relief. “Not a problem.”

I can’t help the smile that fills my face, but I force myself to look down. “Glad to hear it.”

“Speaking of transitions,” Emmitt continues, his tone more confident, “I’ve got a contact who would benefit from your expertise. My buddy, Hays Granger.”

Connor glances over at the mention of the name, clearly recognizing it, but doesn’t interrupt our conversation.

“A golfer?” My brow furrows at the mention of the champion who lives in Scottsdale.

“He’s an elite athlete. And a friend of mine. He’s been asking about performance nutrition for tournament optimization. That something you could help him with?”

I blink, trying to process this information while maintaining professional composure. “Golf nutrition involves different metabolic demands than hockey. Endurance-based rather than anaerobic power output, but… I think I could develop an effective protocol.”

“I’ll give him your number.” His smile is soft but certain, the expression of a man who believes in me completely.

“You’ll give him my number?” I repeat suggestively, unable to resist giving Emmitt a hard time, despite everything swirling between us.

“For business reasons only,” Emmitt is quick to clarify, his voice taking a sharp edge. “A strictly professional consultation.” His eyes find mine with an intensity that makes it clear he’s not offering to connect me with another man for any reason other than work.

Connor pauses his movement and watches us now, the wheels practically turning in his head.

I clear my throat, tilting my head toward the rookie.

“That demonstrates considerable confidence in my capabilities,” I manage, hoping he gets my drift.

“But regarding the transition timeline… Complete separation will be necessary. No contact during the implementation phase. That could be…challenging.”

Emmitt’s jaw tightens. “Challenging,” he agrees, his voice rougher now. “But some restructuring projects are worth the temporary…difficulty.”

You can say that again.

“That’s all I need for now regarding your assessment,” I say, standing. “After you get me that sample, I should be able to put together a comprehensive report.”

“McKenna,” Emmitt says, my name rough on his lips, and I can hear everything he wants to say in those three syllables. But now’s not the time.

“Get me that sample before practice, and I’ll have those results ready by the end of the day.”

I tuck the stylus back into its slot and, with one last meaningful glance, head for the exit.

But I feel Emmitt’s eyes on me with every step.

At the doorway, I risk one glance back. He’s standing exactly where I left him, hands still clenched at his sides, watching me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

Our eyes meet for just a second, and in that moment, everything we can’t say passes between us. The promise, the commitment, the acknowledgment that I’ll bet everything on us.

Then I turn and walk away, knowing he’s still watching, knowing the next time we’re alone together, everything will have changed.