Page 15 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

Emmitt

T he warmup skate feels different tonight.

Every stride carries the weight of twenty years of dreams, the elusive Cup I’ve chased my entire career.

But there’s something else threading through my nerves.

Hope that somewhere in this building, McKenna is officially mine.

That she’ll watch me play tonight as my girlfriend instead of the team nutritionist who’s had to pretend she doesn’t care if I get my teeth knocked out.

Linda assured me the contract was ready.

That McKenna just had to sign it. But knowing my girl, she probably read every line twice and analyzed the risk-benefit ratio.

She may even be is waiting to call an attorney for advice.

Which I wouldn’t blame her for. This is her entire career we’re talking about.

I swallow the lump in my throat and complete another warmup lap, my skates gliding over the still-smooth ice.

I’m scanning the crowd, trying to take in the moment without letting the gravity of tonight’s game get to me, but it isn’t easy.

The arena is packed to capacity, a sea of Phoenix Freeze jerseys and teal towels waving like battle flags. The noise in here is deafening.

Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. At home. Everything we’ve worked off our asses for comes down to the next three periods. Sixty minutes of all-out play once that puck hits the ice.

The opening faceoff approaches, and my eyes sweep Section 108 again. Still no sign of her familiar dark hair, no glimpse of the woman who’s been starring in my dreams for years. And consuming my heart for weeks.

Maybe, she’s running late. Maybe, she decided the risk was too great. Maybe—

Then I spot her.

She’s squeezing in front of other friends and family down Row 3, exactly where she should be. But my heart trips midbeat, and I nearly careen into the boards when I see what she’s wearing.

My jersey. Number twelve. BUCKLEY stretched across her shoulders like a declaration that makes something primal and possessive roar to life in my chest. She actually did it.

Signed the contract, took the leap, chose us.

And now, she’s finding her seat in the section where she belongs.

Wearing my name and proclaiming she’s mine.

The sight of her hits me so hard I have to grip my stick to keep from dropping it.

For two years, she’s watched the games from somewhere I couldn’t see her.

Either in the back or down the tunnel. Now, she’s front and center where every camera might catch her, where every fan can see exactly who she’s here for.

She finds her seat, greeting Frank with a warm hug, but doesn’t sit—everyone’s on their feet.

Her gaze scans the ice until she spots me, and then she smiles.

Not the polite, measured smile I’m used to seeing in this building, but the real one.

The one that transforms her entire face and makes me want to leap over the glass.

Christ, she’s beautiful. And brave as hell.

My heart knocks against my ribs. And suddenly, a thought hits me, one that feels absolutely right.

There should be a ring on her finger. A diamond as gorgeous as she is.

A symbol I want forever with her. A token to ensure she knows she’s not the only one who’s willing to go all in on us.

Something that confirms I don’t want her here just for tonight, but for every game, every season, every championship run for the rest of my career.

The ref’s whistle cuts through my daydream.

“You good, Cap?” Derek asks, his gaze trailing over to the section I was just staring at as we line up for the anthem.

“Never better.”

And it’s true. Having McKenna here, where I can see her cheering for me, no longer forced to hide what we mean to each other?

It changes everything. For weeks, I’ve played with an undercurrent of constant stress, a fear I might lose her.

Now, she’s here in my jersey, and it feels as if someone just lifted a truck off my chest.

The next few minutes are a sensory overload that somehow feels both eternal and lightning-fast. I can barely keep still as the anthem singer’s voice echoes through the arena. Twenty thousand fans sing along, their voices creating a wall of sound that vibrates through my skates and into my bones.

As it finishes, pyrotechnics explode from the rafters, filling the arena with smoke and white sparks, while teal towels wave in the air.

It’s pure chaos, pure energy, and I feed off every second of it.

When we line up for the opening faceoff, the refs go through their final checks with the goalies, and I catch McKenna’s eye one more time.

She’s on her feet with everyone else, towel in hand, cheering for us. For me.

The ref drops into position, puck ready, and everything crystallizes into this single moment. This is it. Game Seven. For the Cup. For everything.

I play like a man possessed.

Every shift feels effortless, every pass crisp and precise. The puck seems to find my stick like it’s magnetized, and my teammates feed off the energy I’m putting out. Even Derek, who’s usually wound tighter than a spring during big games, looks loose and confident.

“Whatever you’re on, Cap, bottle it and sell it,” he says, during a line change.

But I know exactly what it is. It’s freedom. It’s playing for something bigger than just the Cup—playing for my teammates and coaches and the woman who risked everything to be in the stands tonight. The gorgeous, brilliant bombshell who chose me.

Eight minutes into the second period, Connor threads a perfect pass through traffic, and suddenly, I’m alone with the goalie. I don’t overthink it. I just release it with everything I’ve got.

The puck rockets past the goalie’s glove and into the top corner with a satisfying thwap that sends the arena into absolute chaos. The goal horn blares, towels wave like a teal army, and my teammates mob me against the glass.

But through it all, I find her.

McKenna is on her feet screaming, arms raised above her head, exhilaration evident in every line of her body. I lock eyes with her across the ice and nod. Her smile could power the entire building.

The game comes together after that. Every line clicking, every defensive play crisp, every goaltending save spectacular. We’re not just playing hockey. We’re making a statement. This is our house. This is our year. This is our Cup.

Rodriguez makes a spectacular glove save in the third that has the entire arena on its feet again.

Petrov scores a beauty of a goal on a powerplay, threading it through traffic with surgical precision.

Connor delivers a crushing check that separates their top scorer from the puck and draws a roar from the crowd that shakes the building.

With five minutes left and us leading 3-1, I can taste it. The Stanley Cup. The dream I’ve chased since I was seven years old, skating at the old rink with nothing but hope and determination.

When the final buzzer sounds, the arena explodes into pure pandemonium. Confetti cannons fire, streamers fall from the rafters like snow, and grown men who’ve spent their lives hitting pucks with sticks break down in each other’s arms on the ice.

We did it. We actually fucking did it.

The Cup ceremony comes next. As captain, I’m first to touch the silver trophy, first to raise it high over my head and let out a roar from somewhere deep in my soul. It’s heavier than I imagined, solid and real and everything I’ve dreamed about.

Twenty years of work, sacrifice, and determination finally paying off. Every brutal practice, every playoff loss, every moment I questioned if I was good enough—it all led here.

The team celebration is a blur of champagne, tears, and grown men acting like children. Section 108 clears out, with player families making their way onto the ice. But I don’t spot McKenna. It’s like she’s disappeared.

Ten minutes later, when the on-ice celebration settles into something resembling organized chaos, the Freeze PR team is wrangling the players and coaches into position for a team photo.

From where I stand in the center of the shot, I see staff members, front office personnel, and everyone who’s played a role in this championship streaming in to join us for a picture to capture everyone, from Damian, the owner, to Jorge, the custodian, together.

It’s then I spot her. McKenna, making her way carefully across the ice in sneakers.

She’s wearing a Freeze polo, like the other staff, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

She’s back to being the team nutritionist for the official photo.

Back to maintaining a careful distance with everyone here.

Something twists in my chest at the sight. After everything—after the contract, the risk, the jersey—she’s still thinking like an employee instead of the woman I love.

The photographer positions us in lines behind the Cup, coaches and management in the center, players forming the next few lines, staff filling in around the edges. McKenna ends up near the end of my row.

The second the photographer finishes his shots and releases us, I skate straight to her. Her eyes widen as I approach.

“Emmitt, what—”

But I cut her off, cupping her face in my hands and kissing her right there, in front of twenty thousand fans, dozens of cameras, my teammates and everyone in the Freeze organization. I kiss her as I’ve been wanting to for months, deep and sure and completely without reservation.

Behind us, it takes a minute for the guys realize what’s happening, but then they start cheering.

When we break apart, McKenna’s breathless and flushed and absolutely radiant.

“Everyone’s watching,” she whispers.

“Good,” I say, loud enough for the guys nearby to hear as I shoot a glance over my shoulder. “Let them watch.”

Derek wolf-whistles so loudly it probably violates several noise ordinances. Connor is grinning as if it’s Christmas morning. Even Coach is shaking his head with what looks suspiciously like approval.

“You’re insane,” McKenna laughs, but she’s not pulling away.

“I’m in love,” I correct her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “With the bravest, most brilliant, most beautiful woman I know.”

The photographer points his camera at us. “A few with the captain and his lady?”

McKenna starts to protest, but I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her against my side. “You heard the man,” I say, grinning down at her. “You’re officially my lady now.”

She rolls her eyes but melts against me, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted, right here on this ice. The Cup was the dream I’ve chased my whole life. But McKenna? She’s my future. And I’m never letting her go.