Page 14 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

McKenna

T he energy in the building today is electric in a way that makes my skin prickle.

Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. At home.

Everything on the line. The extra media set up in the arena for tonight’s matchup is insane.

And the security is no joke. I had to show my badge twice just to get to my assigned parking spot this morning.

I’m doing a final check of the hydration station just outside the locker room when the first wave of players filters in.

It’s only two in the afternoon, but Game Seven has everyone arriving earlier than usual.

The station looks perfect—electrolyte drinks organized by flavor and concentration, recovery shakes prepped and labeled, water bottles filled and chilled to optimal temperature.

“Hey, McKenna.” Derek nods as he passes, gear bag slung over his shoulder. “You ready for tonight?”

“Always,” I reply, checking my tablet one more time. “I’m here if you need anything.”

Connor follows close behind Derek, wearing a dapper-looking three-piece suit and noise canceling headphones he tugs down as he approaches. Rock music I don’t recognize blares loud enough for the entire building to hear. “McKenna, quick question—”

“Stick to your usual routine,” I interrupt gently. “This isn’t the time for changes. Trust your preparation.”

He nods, looking a touch less nervous as he heads toward the locker room, but I can’t spare the rookie another thought, because beyond him, I see Emmitt approaching from down the hallway. My pulse jumps, but I force myself to maintain my composure, even though, after tonight, everything changes.

“Hey,” he says, stopping at my side. “How’s your day going?”

The question seems odd and somehow loaded with meaning I can’t decipher. Or maybe, it’s his tone. Almost eager. Or maybe, apprehensive. I gesture at the station. “Busy. You know, final preparations for tonight.” I look up at him. “How are you feeling? Ready?”

“More than ready.” His ice-blue eyes search my face as if he’s looking for something specific.

There it is again, something in his voice that strikes me as odd.

But it must be Game Seven nerves. This is the biggest matchup of his career.

The culmination of everything he’s worked for since childhood.

Even an experienced captain like him, who’s usually more laid back than most of the guys on the team, must feel the intense pressure.

“Good.” I lower my voice. “Need anything?”

Something flickers across his expression, and his gaze drops to my lips. “A good-luck kiss?”

I wish.

I click my tongue. “I meant nutrition-wise. At least, until after the game.”

He starts to say something then seems to think better of it. “In that case, I’m good. For now.”

I watch him walk toward the locker room, the nagging feeling I’m missing something important settling in my stomach. But there’s no time to analyze it. There are only a few hours until the opening faceoff.

In my office, an hour later, I’m reviewing final protocols when a sharp knock at my door makes me jump.

When I look up, I nearly do a double take. Linda stands in the doorway, holding a manila folder and wearing a smile that immediately spikes my cortisol.

“McKenna.” She closes the door with deliberate care, the soft click somehow ominous. “Do you have a minute? I have something that is…time sensitive.”

“It can’t wait until after tonight?”

“No.”

My pulse jumps. “Is everything okay? Did someone say something about—”

“Everything’s fine.” She settles into the chair across from my desk, setting the folder on her lap with the kind of precision that suggests whatever’s inside is significant. “Good, actually.”

She opens the folder and pulls out a thick, stapled packet. The Phoenix Freeze logo blazed across the top center of the first page, and a handful of little green flags stuck out from the side that read, “Sign Here.”

A V forms between my brows as I stare at the papers.

“I…I thought you said the contract wouldn’t be ready until after the season ended,” I manage, my voice barely steady. “When contracts are being renegotiated.”

“That was the original timeline, yes.” Linda slides the document across my desk, and even upside down, I confirm it’s a consulting contract. Fully executed. On official Phoenix Freeze letterhead. “But someone made a very compelling argument on your behalf.”

“Someone?” Is this why Emmitt acted so odd in the hallway earlier?

“Emmitt went to management after the conference finals win.” Linda’s voice carries a gentle but matter-of-fact tone someone in her role likely uses often.

“With some help from Assistant Coach Miller, he presented leadership with performance data showing how the team’s stamina advantage throughout the playoffs has been significant.

Apparently, the players’ third and extra-period energy levels have impacted breakaway percentages and puck possession time. ”

My jaw drops, but I reach for the contract, unable to believe my future is real now, when I thought I still had a few weeks to get everything ready.

You are ready , a voice in the back of my mind whispers. More than ready.

My hands tremble as I flip through the pages.

The scope of work is similar to my current position.

And the contract grants explicit permission to consult with other professional teams or individual clients.

It gives the flexibility to set my own protocols, publish research, and build something entirely mine. It’s a dream come true.

Plus, the compensation figure right there in black and white on page twelve is higher than my current salary. Even with the loss of job security and benefits, the number gives me the peace of mind I’ll be okay as I strike off on my own.

I stare at the signature line, processing what she’s telling me. The date on the contract is three days ago. Emmitt made this happen in the middle of the playoffs, when he had a million other things to think about.

“I had no idea he was going to—”

“Emmitt believes in your work.” She lifts a shoulder. “And management was on board when Coach credited your protocols as having played a key role in the team’s health and playoff endurance.”

This isn’t just about finding the loophole that will allow us to be together. It isn’t about our relationship at all. Emmitt going to bat for me is about highlighting my professional value. The expertise I have, the advice I love to share.

I grip the edge of my desk. Not just because the contract is real, but because Emmitt did this. For me.

“There’s something else.” Linda reaches into the folder again, her smile widening.

She places a ticket on my desk. Section 108, Row 3, Seat 14. For tonight’s game. My eyes dart to hers. A small smile curls her lips because she can see I recognize the section number. It’s the friends and family reserved-seating area near center ice, just above the tunnel.

“The moment you sign that contract it voids your current employment status,” she says. “You become an independent contractor. Which means, if you sign this afternoon, at tonight’s game, you can sit wherever you want.”

I pick up the ticket, my fingers tracing the section number. I’ve walked past Section 108 countless times, seen the wives and girlfriends in team colors, wearing jerseys with their boyfriends’ or husbands’ names. But I’ve never imagined myself among them.

“I’ll leave you to review the details. Let me know if you have questions.”

After she leaves, I sit alone in my office, the contract and ticket resting on my desk like evidence of a dream I didn’t dare voice. Not until push came to shove. Thanks to Emmitt. Thanks to those voice memos.

The sounds of game prep continue down the hallway—more urgent now, more intense. But for the first time in months, I’m not on pins and needles, trying to maintain professional boundaries. If I sign this, I’ll be a woman whose boyfriend is about to play the biggest game of his life.

The word stops me cold. Boyfriend. I can say it now.

Out loud. In public. Once my name is on the dotted line, I’ll officially be Emmitt’s girlfriend instead of just the team nutritionist who knows his favorite post-game meal.

And now, I learned so many other details over the past few weeks when we’ve only grown closer, thanks to hours of late-night video chats.

I read through the contract, noting specifics I want to remember, and then pick up a pen. With steady hands, I sign everywhere indicated, my signature claiming the future I can’t wait to begin for a hundred different reasons, but most importantly, because tonight I can cheer for my man.

I grab the fully executed contract and my tablet then head down the hallway. There’s something I need to do after I turn this in to Linda. A task that can’t wait.

The equipment room buzzes with controlled chaos as I step into the space. Tommy and his crew have the gear organized with military precision—backup sticks, extra gloves, pristine jerseys hanging like battle armor.

“McKenna?” Tommy looks up from a stack of helmets, his weathered face creasing with surprise. “Everything okay? Need something for the guys?”

“Actually, for me.” I take a breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I need a favor. A jersey.” Heat creeps up my neck as I force out the words. “Number twelve.”

His expression shifts to a knowing smile as he rocks back on his heels.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He turns to the rack of pristine white jerseys, running his fingers along the hangers until he finds the one.

“Cap’s gonna lose his damn mind when he sees you wearing this,” he says, pulling out a home jersey with BUCKLEY emblazoned across the shoulders in bold black letters.

I take it from him, feeling the weight of the fabric, the significance of what I’m about to do.

The uniform is huge, way too big for me.

But for tonight? It’ll do. For two years, I’ve watched from press boxes and staff sections, maintaining professional distance.

Tonight, I’ll sit in Section 108, wearing his name and number. Tonight, everyone will know.

Tommy pats my shoulder with paternal affection. “That boy’s been playing his heart out all playoffs. Tonight, you’re sure to be his lucky charm.”

“I hope so.”

I return to my office with the jersey, hanging it carefully on the back of my door while I finish my work. There are still hydration protocols to monitor, post-game recovery meals to coordinate, and a dozen other responsibilities that don’t disappear just because my employment status changed.

For the next few hours, I throw myself into the familiar routine of game day preparation.

I check on player fluid intakes, coordinate with the training staff about electrolyte needs, and ensure everything is ready for whatever the night might bring.

It feels surreal, but I’m too busy to dwell on the emotion.

And too busy trying to avoid Emmitt. I want the next time he sees me to be when I’m in the stands wearing his jersey. Cheering his name.

The arena is packed to the brim and near deafening as warmups wind down and the lights dim.

With nothing left to do as the faceoff approaches, I know it’s time.

I pull the jersey over my team polo, the fresh fabric stiff and enormous on my frame.

I tie it off at the bottom and catch my reflection in the small mirror by my filing cabinet.

I let down my hair and run my fingers through it, then swipe on some tinted lip balm from my desk drawer.

I make my way through the facility’s corridors toward the tunnel.

I take a deep breath, the chill of the ice sending goosebumps up my arms. Everything feels different, and not just because it’s packed and Game Seven.

It’s because tonight changes everything.

And I get to cheer for my man without hiding in the shadows. I can’t wait for him to see me.