Page 2 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

Emmitt

E very muscle in my body protests when my phone alarm goes off way too early.

I collapsed face-first into bed last night after wrapping up seven games in twelve days, and I could use another few years of sleep.

But my ribs choose this moment to remind me exactly how many hits I took in Denver as I wince and roll over.

My shoulders feel like they’ve been used as punching bags, and there’s an ache in my left hip that’ll definitely require a conversation with Whitney, the trainer.

But we went five and two, and that’s all that matters.

The hard-earned wins put us exactly where we need to be heading into the final stretch of the season, working toward a deep Stanley Cup run.

I scrub a hand down my face and grab my phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen. The usual suspects light up my notifications—team group chat, my agent, and my mom. Shit, I need to get back to her about my nephew’s birthday party next week.

But first, there’s a text from Connor, our newest call-up from the minors. I could tell he was in his head on the flight home last night after that turnover in the second period.

Thanks for the pass in the third. Sorry, I couldn’t bury it.

I practically hear the defeat. The kid’s got skills but zero confidence. It’s been a few years, but I’ve been there. I type back:

Defense made a good play. Keep shooting like that, and you’ll light the lamp soon. Good hustle last night.

I’m about to hit send, but then add: Stay after practice tomorrow, and I’ll show you a tip for that backhand.

The response arrives almost immediately: Definitely, thanks, Cap.

That’s better. Kid needs to know someone’s got his back.

But there’s something else. I blink harder, suddenly wide awake. A message from McKenna Ryan?

McKenna Ryan, the team nutritionist who speaks in precise, measured sentences and won’t hold eye contact for longer than three seconds.

The brainiac who somehow makes conversations about hydration protocols sound like classified intelligence briefings and has had me hanging on every word. For two damn years.

The brunette beauty, whose hazel eyes have haunted my dreams since the day she was hired. Not that I’m not the kind of guy someone like her takes seriously.

But why the hell did she send me a message at almost two in the morning? I click on her name. Not a message… Five voice memos.

I scramble up and stare at the screen. It must be something work-related. Maybe, she had some recovery meal advice and didn’t want to wait until Thursday. McKenna’s the type to get excited about peer-reviewed research and dietary guidelines no matter the hour.

I hit play.

“You know what, Emmitt? I’ve been thinking about our relationship, and I realized something.”

I freeze. Our relationship? We don’t have a relationship. We have professional conversations about macronutrients and electrolyte balance. Sure, there’s the occasional moment where I catch her looking at me before she quickly studies her tablet as if it holds the secrets of the universe, but…

Her voice. Hell, it’s nothing like the no-nonsense tone she uses at work. This McKenna sounds raw.

“You never actually wanted me. You wanted a social-media-ready version of me. The polished, enthusiastic-but-not-too-passionate McKenna who looked good on paper but wouldn’t be too demanding in real life.”

And definitely drunk. Uh-oh. This isn’t meant for me. This is meant for some other Emmitt. Some asshole who clearly did a number on her.

I should stop listening. Delete the entire thread.

Pretend this never happened. McKenna would die if she knew I heard that.

Maybe already has. The rest of the memos could be requests for me to disregard the first one, complete with scientific explanations about how alcohol affects judgment.

The thought makes me smile because that would be just like her.

But I can’t stop. This unfiltered version of McKenna, a passionate, pissed off, brutally honest firecracker, is magnetic in a way that makes my chest tight.

I hit play on the second one.

“You didn’t want a woman with real opinions and actual goals and weird snack habits. You wanted someone who would blend herself into your life. A girlfriend-shaped accessory. A woman who matches your wanna-be athletic aesthetic and sure as hell doesn’t talk too loud.”

Fuck. Whoever this guy is, he’s an idiot.

The idea of McKenna blending into anything is laughable.

She’s got more spine in her pinky finger than half the guys on my team.

I’ve seen her shut down Derek’s attitude about post-workout nutrition with one raised eyebrow and a statistical breakdown that left him speechless.

I keep going. I can’t not.

“But hey—congrats on the upgrade. I hope your new person prioritizes you. I hope she makes your ego breakfast in bed and suggests hot sauce for your eggs so that it reminds you of me. And I hope she never, ever achieves anything that doesn’t include you.

Because, hey, from the picture it sure seems that after twenty-four days she’s got you wrapped around her little finger. ”

The pain behind the bravado in her voice hits me like a blindside check. This woman, who I’ve watched command respect from two-hundred-pound professional athletes, sounds as if she’s been gutted. Twenty-four days? What the hell?

I can already picture the type of asshole who’d convince her being brilliant was a flaw instead of the most attractive thing about her. A douchebag who’s moved on faster than a breakaway, already flaunting a new woman at his side.

McKenna deserves better. She reads actual books on team flights. She has opinions about everything and a gift for making details about amino acids sound like state secrets, and God help me, it’s irresistible.

Plus, the framed photo on her desk, of her crossing some marathon finish line, mud-splattered and grinning? I’ve stared at that wide smile more times than any captain should, caught up in how uninhibited she looks when her guard is completely down.

Not that I think about McKenna. Much.

Okay, constantly. But that’s beside the point.

I glance down at my phone screen, wondering if any of these messages are requests to ignore. I hit play on the next one.

“Oh, and stealing my garlic parmesan dip? That was petty, even for you. You don’t steal a woman’s condiments. That’s breakup 101.”

I bark out a laugh that echoes in my empty bedroom.

She’s absolutely right, but it’s the specificity of her complaint that’s so perfectly McKenna.

I can picture her face when she discovered it missing.

It was probably the same expression she gets when Petrov tries to convince her that vodka counts as a carbohydrate.

There’s one more voice memo. I can’t click play fast enough.

“Also, I faked it that time. You know the one. On the floor. With the playlist you swore was ‘romantic’ but included Nickelback. I wish I could somehow erase that entire train wreck of a night from my mind.”

I wince as irritation flares in my gut. She had to fake it? Her ex isn’t just a loser; he’s the kind of selfish jackass who doesn’t pay attention and probably never once asked what she wanted.

That’s it. That’s all the messages. My head falls back against the headboard, phone resting on my chest. My ceiling fan makes its usual clicking sound, and my neighbor’s beagle is barking, routine sounds for a morning that’s blown my world sideways before I’ve even gotten out of bed.

Because drunk, devastated McKenna just gave me a glimpse behind the walls she so carefully maintains. And everything there, the fire, the vulnerability, the razor-sharp wit even when she’s falling apart, is absolutely magnetic.

This is dangerous territory. McKenna’s off-limits for about fifty different reasons, starting with team policy and ending with the fact that she’d probably rather eat glass than have this conversation when she’s sober. Let alone date a player.

I should delete these messages. Should pretend they never happened. Instead, I open a text thread.

I think you meant to send these to someone else.

Delete. Too dismissive. As if I’m embarrassed for her.

For what it’s worth, he sounds like a complete jerk.

True, but not nearly strong enough.

I stare at the blank message box, cursor blinking as if it’s tapping its foot waiting for me to figure out how to walk this tightrope.

Acknowledge the mistake but make it clear where I stand on the whole situation.

Give her an out if she wants to pretend this never happened, while also letting her know someone’s in her corner.

Finally, Who’s this Emmitt asshole? Send me his address, and I’ll handle the rest.

I read it three times before hitting send. Direct enough to show I’m genuinely pissed off on her behalf but still gives her room to back away if she wants to.

Then, I set my phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, my heart pounding. The idea of some jackass treating McKenna like disposable garbage has my blood running hot in a way that has nothing to do with hockey.

McKenna Ryan. Two years of professional distance and carefully maintained boundaries. Two years of pretending I don’t notice the way she bites her lip when she’s deep in thought or how her laugh sounds different when she thinks no one’s listening.

And now this. Five drunk voice memos show me exactly who she is when the walls come down.

I’m so screwed.

My phone stays silent. No immediate response. She’s either still asleep or staring at her phone in absolute horror, trying to figure out how to handle this in a way that doesn’t compromise our professional relationship.

But for the first time in weeks, the season-ending pressure feels manageable. Like, maybe, there are more interesting distractions to consider than powerplay percentages and post-game interviews.

Like whether McKenna Ryan will text me back. And what happens if she does?