Page 16 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

The neon beer signs and ESPN highlights playing on a dozen screens of O’Malley’s Sports Bar create a sensory overload that’s the polar opposite of our usual quiet nights at home. Emmitt’s home, that is, where I’ve basically stayed all summer, although I still have my condo. At least, for now.

“So this is the sports bar you threatened to bring me to,” I say, tugging at the sleeves of Emmitt’s Freeze hoodie.

“I always keep my promises.” His grin is pure trouble as he guides me toward the back corner where half the Phoenix Freeze roster has taken up residence. “Fair warning—they’ve been drinking since four.”

It’s barely seven o’clock on a Thursday in early September, their last hurrah before training camp starts Monday.

“McKenna!” Derek bellows from over by the darts. “Finally! Tell these idiots that jalapenos count as vegetables.”

I haven’t even made it to their table, and they’re already dragging me into their nutritional debates.

“Technically, jalapenos are fruits,” I reply, and the entire table erupts in groans.

“Traitor!” Derek shouts. “I thought you were on our side now.”

“I’m on the side of botanical accuracy,” I reply, sliding onto the stool Emmitt holds out for me, his hand immediately settling on my lower back. “But I appreciate your optimism in thinking anything on that plate resembles actual nutrition.”

The tables are covered with appetizers that, combined, look like a heart attack waiting to happen. Loaded nachos, buffalo wings, and enough fried mozzarella sticks to feed a village.

“What can I get you to drink?” the blonde waitress asks.

Emmitt orders a Four Peaks IPA, and I ask her to, “Make that two.”

Connor nearly chokes on his wing. “Did McKenna Ryan just order a beer?”

I look around to find shocked expressions on all the guys’ faces. Except for Petrov.

He only smiles and lifts his glass. “Is celebration time. Vodka is basically potato, very healthy. And hops also.”

“I’m off duty,” I say with a shrug, stealing a nacho from the closest plate. “Although this cheese sauce is basically liquid heart disease.”

“See? She can’t help herself,” Derek says.

“Prove it,” Connor challenges, sliding his plate of wings toward me. “Eat one without telling us about the saturated fat content.”

I pick up a wing and take a bite. It’s terrible and delicious.

“Well?” Derek prods.

“It’s not bad,” I choke out, reaching for a stack of napkins as my tastebuds are set aflame.

Emmitt chuckles and slides me an untouched glass of water, his fingers brushing mine. “Better?”

“Much,” I say, after guzzling enough to extinguish the fire in my mouth.

“We’re playing pool.” Derek’s eyes light up dangerously. “You any good?”

I wipe the orange goop off my fingers and cock an eyebrow in his direction. “Define good.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m lining up a corner pocket shot while Emmitt comes up behind me.

“Let me help,” he says, his arms coming around me, chest pressed against my back as his hands cover mine on the cue.

“In case you didn’t notice, I’m winning,” I protest, but I don’t pull away.

“Yes, but your ass, wiggling as you bent over, was calling my name,” he murmurs against my ear.

“Get a room!” Derek shouts.

I press back against him, the thick ridge of his cock between my cheeks, and sink the shot cleanly. Then I turn in Emmitt’s arms to kiss him. Hard. The guys groan collectively.

“Not bad for a nutritionist,” Derek admits grudgingly, as he tucks his cue back in the rack on the wall.

When we return to the table, Connor asks, “So, McKenna, what’s it like dating Captain Serious over there?”

“Well,” I say, running my finger along Emmitt’s arm, “he’s got his moments. Like when he leaves little notes on the—”

“Nope,” Emmitt interrupts, covering my mouth with his hand. “Some things stay private.”

I lick his palm, and his eyes darken, his thumb brushing my bottom lip before Petrov’s voice cuts through the moment. “Get a room.”

“Yeah,” Connor adds. “Some of us are still single and don’t need the reminder.’”

Emmitt’s hand finds mine under the table, his fingers threading between mine in a way that’s second nature now.

“Speaking of new clients,” Derek says wickedly, “I heard McKenna’s working with the Inferno now?”

“Baseball not a real sport,” Petrov declares.

“You clearly don’t understand the strategic complexity—” I start then stop myself. “You know what? I’m not defending baseball to guys who think fighting on ice skates is legitimate conflict resolution.”

“Whatever. At least, we’re not working with soccer players,” Derek continues.

“Actually, I am working with the ASU women’s soccer team. Pro bono.” I can’t resist the setup. “And their cardiovascular endurance metrics are significantly better than yours.”

The table goes silent.

“VO2 max, lactate threshold, recovery heartrate—the soccer girls outperform you in every category.”

“Are they…single?” Connor asks hopefully.

“Connor,” I say flatly, “these women are college athletes focused on their sport and their education. I wouldn’t introduce you, even if you begged.”

“Worth asking,” he mumbles.

“Besides,” I continue, “half of them could probably bench press you.”

“Now, that’s just hurtful,” Connor protests.

“You know,” Derek says, lifting his glass in my direction, “you’re different now. Happier. More relaxed.”

“McKenna getting…what do you call it? Laid?” Petrov asks, looking around the table for confirmation.

“Hey,” Emmitt starts, leaning forward protectively, but I squeeze his thigh to stop him.

“Yes, Petrov, that’s right. And I could explain all the physical and psychological benefits for you guys, but considering how much bragging about conquests I’ve heard over the years, I’m pretty sure you don’t need any more encouragement.”

A few of them have the grace to look guilty, but not Derek. “There’s nothing wrong with getting laid and staying single,” the left winger declares, raising his beer. “Some of us appreciate our freedom.”

“Freedom to do what? Eat cereal for dinner and wear the same jeans three days in a row?” I ask.

“Exactly! The dream. No offense, McKenna, but the whole relationship thing looks exhausting.”

“Your no-strings lifestyle involving what, exactly?” Emmitt chimes in. “Tinder dates and takeout?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Cap.”

The waitress stops by again, her attention seeming to rest on Emmitt.

“How’s everything tasting?” she asks, leaning in close.

“Fine,” Emmitt says shortly, his hand moving to my thigh.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she purrs.

After she leaves, I raise an eyebrow. “Popular tonight?”

“I’m only interested in one person’s attention,” he says, kissing my temple.

“Good answer,” Derek snorts. “McKenna looks like she could take her.”

“I absolutely could,” I confirm, making Emmitt laugh.

We stay until closing, and when we spill into the parking lot, Derek declares, “McKenna, you’re officially required to attend all future team-bonding activities. As a girlfriend, not a nutritionist.”

“She’ll be there,” Emmitt says confidently, draping an arm around my shoulder. “Right where she belongs.”

“Glad you two finally figured that out,” Conner says, with a knowing smile.

In the car, as the rideshare driver turns out of the parking lot, Emmitt’s hand rests high on my bare thigh, his thumb stroking small circles. The beers have made me bold and reckless.

“You know,” I say, my words slightly slurred as I study his profile, “watching you get all territorial in there was kind of hot.”

His hand tightens on my thigh, his own speech a little loose.

“McKenna,” he warns quietly, with a glance toward the driver.

“What? The way you pulled me closer when that waitress was flirting…” I trail my fingers up his arm then let my hand drift to his lap, palming him through his jeans. The alcohol has killed my inhibitions completely. “The way you marked your territory.”

He’s already half-hard, and I feel him twitch under my touch. His jaw clenches as he fights to stay quiet, but his breathing is heavier, less controlled.

“I love knowing I’m yours,” I whisper against his ear, my voice barely audible but thick with want. “Love that everyone can see it now.”

“Keep that up, and we might not make it to the bedroom once we get home,” he breathes, his voice strained and rougher than usual.

I continue stroking him slowly through the denim, my movements less precise but more urgent.

“Who says I need a bed?” I whisper then giggle softly as the driver glances in the rearview mirror.

Emmitt’s eyes darken at my suggestion, but he keeps his voice low and gravelly. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I soften my touch but don’t pull away completely, swaying slightly as I lean into his solid warmth. “But seriously, thank you.”

“For what?” His voice is still tight with want, words coming slower.

“For keeping your promise. For bringing me tonight. For making me yours.”

“You’ve always been mine,” he says, his free hand covering mine.

A few minutes later, the car takes a left instead of the right turn toward Emmitt’s place, and I blink slowly, trying to focus as we head toward my complex.

“The driver’s going the wrong way,” I murmur.

“He’s going exactly where I asked him to,” Emmitt says, his eyes soft in the passing streetlights, pupils dilated.

Sure enough, a glance at the phone on the dash confirms the destination is my condo, though it takes me a second to process.

“My place? But we haven’t been there in weeks,” I say, confused.

“I have a surprise for you.”

When we pull up to my front door, my breath catches, and I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing clearly. On the porch, there’s a neat stack of pristine moving boxes.

I climb out slowly, moving with the careful precision of someone who knows they’re drunk. I stare at the boxes, swaying slightly as I try to focus on the same corner where that trash bag was dumped months ago. The night I sent those voice memos.

“Emmitt,” I say softly, turning to face him. “What is this?”

He takes my hands in his. “Time to make it official,” he says. “We’re moving you in properly.”

“We’re moving me in?” I repeat, shooting him a look that’s half incredulous, half swaying.

“McKenna, you haven’t slept in your own bed in two months,” he says, gesturing broadly with one hand while keeping the other on me for balance.

“Your toothbrush took up residence in my drawer, half your clothes are in my closet, and you get mail delivered there now. This is just…making it permanent.”

“Permanent?” I tease, holding up a hand that wavers slightly. “I don’t see a ring on this finger.”

Something flickers across his face, a look that’s equal parts guilty and excited. His eyes dart away for just a second before meeting mine again.

“Well,” he says, his cocky grin faltering slightly, “one thing at a time.”

“Emmitt Buckley,” I say slowly, studying his expression while trying not to sway, “what aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly then clears his throat. “I mean, can’t a guy want to live with his girlfriend without having an ulterior motive?”

“Sure, he can. But you’re fidgeting. More than usual.”

“I don’t fidget.”

“Emmitt.” I step closer, grabbing his shirt for balance.

He threads a hand through his hair, looking suddenly nervous in a way I’ve never seen him, the alcohol making him less guarded.

“Okay, I have…thoughts. About the future. Our future. Plenty of them. But you’ve got so much going on with your business taking off, new clients, building your reputation…” He trails off, then adds quietly, “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“So you’re worried I’m not ready?” I arch an eyebrow, swaying slightly.

“Not ready yet,” he corrects, his voice softer now.

“Maybe, it’s you that’s not ready,” I respond, feeling defensive.

“Me? Me? ” He shakes his head. “I’ve been ready since that night at the rink. No, since that night you came over for pizza. Hell, maybe, since the day you started with the team. You’re it for me, McKenna. The only woman I want, now and forever. But I know you need time to—”

“Emmitt,” I interrupt, swaying as I step closer and grab his shirt with both hands. The alcohol flowing through my bloodstream has made me bold. “I’m ready, too.”

He freezes, his hands tightening on my waist in a possessive, hungry grip. “You are?”

“I am.”

“What if I told you I have a ring hidden at home?”

“I’d say you’re overthinking it,” I whisper, pulling him down for a kiss that’s messy and desperate and tastes like beer and want.

We stumble toward my front door, his hands roaming as I fumble with my keys, my coordination shot. “Can’t get the damn thing—”

“Here,” he breathes against my neck. His hands cover mine on the keys, but instead of helping, he’s distracted when I arch into him, my body molding to his.

“Emmitt, door. Now.”

He refocuses until the lock finally gives way, and we practically fall through the entryway, boxes forgotten on the porch as he kicks the door shut and presses me against it.

“So it’s a yes to moving in?” he murmurs, his voice rough as his mouth finds my throat.

“It’s a yes to everything,” I gasp, already tugging at his shirt. “Especially to you, doing me, right now.”

***