Page 13 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

Emmitt

T he burner phone feels heavy in my hands tonight.

Maybe, because I know McKenna’s three floors below me in this same damn hotel.

Close enough I could sprint down the stairs and be knocking on her door in under two minutes.

Which is exactly why I’m staying put like the disciplined captain everyone thinks I am.

I pace the length of my suite, the city lights of Vancouver stretching out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

We won the first match of the conference finals tonight—dominated, actually—and I should be riding high.

We’re three wins from earning a chance to win it all in the Stanley Cup Finals.

As few as seven wins from everything I’ve dreamed about since I was seven years old.

But tonight, all I can think about is how McKenna looked when I spotted her in the tunnel after the game. Professional smile, team polo, tablet in hand. She congratulated the entire team in a careful, measured tone. And tried not to look at me for too long as I passed her.

Three floors. Might as well be three countries.

It’s nearly midnight, but I dial the number to her burner. Ten digits I memorized the day I set up both our spare lines. It was the only thing I could do, a lifeline that’s made these past few weeks bearable. Barely.

Three rings then her face fills the screen, and my chest expands as it always does when she answers. Every damn night since before the end of the regular season and through two rounds of playoffs.

“Hey, stranger.” Her smile transforms from the polite professional mask I saw earlier to something real. Something just for me.

She’s in a hotel terry-cloth robe, hair damp from the shower, sitting cross-legged on her bed. The sight of her bare shoulder, with the thinnest of pink straps peeking out from the fluffy white neckline, makes my mouth go dry.

“Hey, yourself. How was your day?” I sink into the oversized chair by the window, trying to look casual when every cell in my body is hyperaware she’s three floors away. On a hotel bed.

“Productive, actually.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I fit in a new client consultation around lunchtime, and Hays referred another golfer from his club. Plus, the website officially launched this morning.”

The pride in her voice spreads something warm through my chest. “McKenna, that’s incredible. Show me.”

She angles her phone so I can see her laptop screen as she pulls up the site. Clean, professional, with a headshot that makes her look smart and approachable. And also fucking beautiful.

She clicks around the few pages that are up so far. Her brother’s best friend helped her with it, and it’s great, perfectly her. Passionate but grounded, scientific but human.

“You built an empire in weeks,” I say, meaning every word.

“Hardly an empire. More like a tiny kingdom. Maybe a duchy.” But she’s grinning now, the kind of uninhibited smile I live for. “What about you? How are you feeling about the game?”

Most people ask about goals or saves or highlight-reel plays. McKenna asks how I’m feeling, because she always wants to know what’s happening in my head.

“Good. Really good. Rodriguez made some incredible stops in the second period. Really kept us in it when the offense was pressing.”

“Your goal in the first was a great start. And that assist in the third to Derrick? Man, that was exciting.”

“I’m glad I could put on a good show for you.”

Her expression softens. “Me, too. I love watching you play. It’s…” She trails off, looking suddenly shy.

“It’s what?”

“Hot,” she admits, color rising in her cheeks.

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll forget why staying in this room is a good idea,” I say, my voice rough.

Her eyes darken. “What room number are you in?”

“McKenna.”

“I’m just asking.”

“4705.”

“I’m in 4417.” She bites her lower lip, a gesture that sends heat straight to my groin. “That’s not very far.”

“Far enough.” I grip the phone tighter. “You know we can’t risk—”

“I know.” Her voice is soft but certain. “Especially with the team playoff rules during travel. Now, with players under strict guidelines, you’re the one who can’t enjoy company.”

“As if things weren’t hard enough already.”

“You’re protecting something that matters to me more than you’ll ever know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish things were different. Already in place.”

The longing in her voice matches the ache that’s been living in my chest for weeks. “Tell me about it. I’ve been going insane being so near you every damn day, and today, when you bit your pen during the meeting—”

“Bit my pen?” She looks genuinely confused.

“You were concentrating, and you got that little furrow between your eyebrows. All I could think about was those lips wrapped around me.”

Her breath catches, and I watch her pupils dilate even through the phone screen. “Emmitt.”

“Yeah?”

“What if I mentioned this robe isn’t the only thing I’m wearing?”

My brain short-circuits. I stare at her through the screen, while my blood redirects south with alarming efficiency.

“That’s…” I clear my throat. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.” She shifts on the bed, and the robe gapes even more at the neckline. “If it were fair, you’d be down here, in bed with me, instead of up there, looking ridiculously handsome in that hotel chair.”

“You think I look handsome?”

“I think you look like every fantasy I’ve had for way too long.” Her voice drops to the husky register that makes me want to put my fist through something. “Want to know what I’ve been thinking about?”

“Jesus, McKenna.” I’m already rock hard, straining against my sweatpants like a horny teenager. “You’re going to kill me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I lean back in the chair, phone held steady despite the way my hands want to shake. “Tell me.”

“I think about your hands.” She traces a slow finger along her collarbone, visible above the robe’s neckline. “How they felt on my skin that night. How gentle you were, but also how…commanding.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “What else?”

“Your mouth.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Everywhere you kissed me. Everywhere I wanted you to kiss me but didn’t get the chance to ask.”

“Where didn’t I kiss you?” My voice sounds like gravel.

Instead of answering with words, she slowly unties the robe’s belt. The fabric falls open, revealing a pale pink lace bra and matching panties. My mouth goes completely dry.

“Here,” she whispers, running her fingers along the lace edge of her bra. “And here.” Her hand trails lower, skimming the matching panties.

“Fuck, McKenna.” I’m already reaching for the waistband of my sweatpants, yanking the knot from the drawstrings open. “You’re three floors away wearing nothing but lingerie, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“You can talk to me.” Her eyes are dark with want, fixed on the screen as if she’s trying to reach through it. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here.”

With pleasure.

I close my eyes briefly then meet her gaze through the camera. “If I were there, I’d start by kissing you until you couldn’t remember your own name. Then I’d take my time getting you out of that lace.”

“How would you do that?”

“With my teeth.” The words come out rough, honest. “I’d trace every edge with my tongue before I removed anything. Make you squirm.”

Her breathing picks up, and her hand moves to cup her breast, pinching the nipple between her thumb and finger through the lace. “Keep going.”

“I’d lay you back on that bed and worship every inch of you until you were begging me to touch you where you need it most.”

“I’m already begging,” she breathes.

“Show me.”

She slides her hand down her taut belly to her panties then slips it underneath, and I lose the last of my restraint. My hand goes to my cock, fisting hard as I watch her touch herself through the screen.

“I wish these were your hands,” she whispers.

“They will be. Soon as this playoff run is over, I’m going to spend an entire weekend making up for every night we’ve been apart.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” I’m stroking faster now, watching the way her back arches as she moves her fingers in small circles. “You’re so beautiful, McKenna. You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” she gasps.

“You make me crazy. Make me want to forget everything that’s not you.” My voice is getting rougher, less controlled. “I think about you constantly. During practice, during games, during press conferences where I’m supposed to be talking defensive strategies.”

She laughs breathlessly. “That’s terrible focus for a captain.”

“Terrible focus, incredible motivation.” I’m close now, can feel the tension building. “Come for me, baby. Let me watch you fall apart.”

Her rhythm quickens, head falling back against the pillows. “Emmitt, I’m—”

“I know. I can see it. You’re perfect.”

She comes with my name on her lips, back arching off the bed, and the sight pushes me over the edge. I stroke myself through my orgasm, shooting off into my sweatpants as if I’m fourteen again. I watch her beautiful face as she comes down from her high.

For a long moment, we just breathe at each other through the screen.

“Well,” she says finally, voice still shaky. “That was…”

“Not nearly enough,” I finish.

She laughs, reaching for the robe to cover herself. “Not even close.”

I need to change but not yet. There’s no way I’ll break the intimacy of this moment.

“So seven more games until it’ll be your hands on me?” she asks quietly.

“Best-case scenario. Could be as many as thirteen if the series goes the full seven.” I run a hand through my hair. “I am in the strangest conflict of my life right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve wanted to win the Stanley Cup since I was seven years old.

It’s been the goal, the dream, everything I’ve worked toward.

” I pause, trying to find the right words.

“But every series we win means more time away from you. I want to win more than anything, but I also want it to be over so I can start my real life.”

“Your real life?”

“With you.”

Her smile could power the entire Phoenix metro area. “I want that, too. But Emmitt? Don’t you dare hold back in these games for me. You chase that Cup with everything you’ve got. I’ll be here when you’re done. When you’ve led the Freeze to victory.”

And that, right there, is why I’m completely gone for this woman. She gets it. Gets me. Gets that some dreams are worth chasing even when they complicate everything else.

“I won’t hold back.”

We talk for another hour, about everything and nothing. Her business plans, my game strategies, movies we want to watch together, places we want to travel. Normal couple things that feel extraordinary when you’re stealing moments through a phone screen.

When we finally hang up, I sink onto the hotel bed and stare at the ceiling. Three floors down, the woman I love is probably doing the same thing.