Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

McKenna

I ’ve lived in Arizona for two years and still can’t get over how blazing hot the sun is, even in April.

It’s not yet nine in the morning, but I’m already two miles into what was supposed to be a casual hike.

Instead, my legs are driving me through this mountain preserve path as if I’m being chased by a coyote.

My heart hammers in my chest, and not just from the incline. I’ve been checking my phone obsessively since I woke up at the crack of dawn, dreading Emmitt’s response to my mortifying voice memos. Condiment theft and Nickelback. I actually said that. Out loud. To Emmitt Buckley.

My watch buzzes against my wrist, and I stop dead in my tracks.

A roadrunner darts across the trail ahead of me, disappearing into the scrub brush as if it has somewhere important to be.

Unlike me, the girl frozen in the middle of a hiking trail, about to find out if I’ve destroyed my entire career.

I glance down, the notification glowing on the small screen. Sure enough, one text from Emmitt Buckley.

I stumble over to a boulder, my legs suddenly unsteady, and tap the screen.

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

I stare at the message, sweat trickling down my spine.

Emmitt Buckley just asked for my ex’s address with the kind of deadly serious tone that makes opposing teams think twice about cheap shots.

The same man who leads team meetings and gives interviews to ESPN just offered to personally deliver justice for my relationship drama.

A hiker with a walking stick and a curious Jack Russell terrier passes. I turn back to my wrist. Emmitt’s just being loyal. The way captains look out for everyone in their orbit. Except this feels different. Less like team solidarity and more like individual protection. It feels personal.

I swipe my shirtsleeve over the sweat beading on my forehead and debate what to say. Eventually landing on: I’m mortified. And you definitely can’t go around threatening my ex because of a drunk voice memo. Or five. That’s how we both get fired.

His response comes almost immediately: Too late. I’m already planning his educational seminar on how to treat women properly.

Despite the humiliation, the potential career implications, and the fact that I’m texting the most off-limits man in professional hockey, I smile. You’re supposed to be horrified by my unprofessional breakdown, not plotting vigilante justice.

Vigilante justice is the only kind that works with pricks like him. Besides, I’m off-duty—different rules apply.

I chug from my water bottle while sneaking another peek at the message.

Different rules apply. The hell they do.

But the idea of Emmitt Buckley operating under “different rules” makes my pulse spike as if I just sprinted up Camelback Mountain.

It sounds personal. Dangerous. As if, maybe, I’m not the only one feeling this charge between us I’ve been trying to ignore for two years.

And that terrifies me more than any disciplinary hearing ever could.

I should cite team policy. Should cut off this conversation and get home.

Take a cold shower. Pretend last night never happened.

Draft a professional apology email and pray Linda in HR never finds out.

Sure, the no-nonsense director of Human Resources and I have always gotten along.

And, yeah, she credits me with helping her overcome her three-a-day Diet Coke habit. But goodwill only goes so far.

My phone buzzes again. Serious question though… Are you okay?

The concern makes my chest tight. When was the last time someone asked if I was okay and actually seemed to want an answer? Certainly not my ex, who was always too busy curating his personal brand to notice when I was having a rough day.

I’m fine. Just wine and poor judgment. Deadly combination.

We’ve all been there. Though, usually my poor judgment involves agreeing to do an interview when I should just keep my mouth shut.

A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Of course, he’d find a way to make this about something equally, if not more, embarrassing. It’s annoyingly charming.

I rise and start down the trail. Following this thread can lead to no good. It’s not a conversation about lean mass gain or macronutrient targets, and no matter what happened, he’s still a player and I’m still team staff.

But I can’t help it. I click the button to voice type. Not a voice memo… I learned my lesson there. At least, your poor judgment doesn’t violate the employee handbook.

A minute later. Pretty sure the interview where I called Rodriguez ‘halfway decent’ in goal violated at least five PR guidelines.

He’s trying to make me feel better about my spectacular mistake. And succeeding. At least, a little. My pulse does a little fluttery thing every time my watch buzzes, even though this is professional courtesy. Nothing more.

And there it goes again. You were being human. Honestly, it’s refreshing.

I pull up short. Refreshing? What does that mean? Refreshing compared to what? Compared to my normal state? Is he saying he likes seeing me so…uninhibited? That’s…not good. That’s the opposite of good.

Stop it, McKenna , I chastise myself. The man is just being kind, trying to make me feel better. Don’t read more into it.

He’s still texting. Speaking of nutrition crises, any chance you’re available for a consultation?

I squint at the screen. A consultation? Where’s he going with this? He knows I’m off today. He is, too. The whole team has a recovery day after the road trip.

I’ll be at work tomorrow.

What about tonight?

My pulse jumps. Tonight? A nutrition consultation? That’s not a professional question. It’s an invitation wrapped in the thinnest veneer of work talk. I consider my response for a minute.

Tell me more about this nutrition crisis.

I’m trying to match his tone—light, teasing, but still technically work-related.

It’s a pizza emergency

Oh no. My mouth goes dry, and it has nothing to do with the Phoenix heat. I rub the scar on my chin, considering my response.

A pizza emergency?

I’m stalling. I know I am. But I need to understand what we’re talking about here. Colleague dinner? Friendly gesture? Or something that will get me fired faster than you can say “conflict of interest”?

The kind where I order three different kinds of pizza because I can’t decide. A completely condiment-safe environment, I promise.

I bark out a laugh, startling a lizard that scurries under a nearby Palo Verde. How is it possible Emmitt Buckley can make a condiment-safe environment sound charming and funny, and somehow also…intimate?

Maybe, he just wants to clear the air, so things won’t be weird at work from now on. Even so, a tiny slice of my frontal lobe whistles like a referee in overtime. There’s team policy to consider, professional boundaries to remember, and career suicide to avoid.

But God, the chance to apologize properly in person someplace besides the office? To explain I’m not actually an unstable person who regularly drunk-dials coworkers is tempting.

I’d appreciate a chance to set the record straight about last night.

There. That’s professional. Mature. Appropriate damage control.

So it’s a yes to pizza?

My mouth opens. Then shuts. Whitney would scream that this is insane. She’d cite chapter and verse of the employee handbook and probably stage an intervention involving protein bars and motivational speeches about career goals.

But the team trainer isn’t here at the moment. She’s probably working on Petrov’s shoulder right now while he teaches her Russian swear words.

And I can handle one casual dinner with a colleague. Even one who offers to teach my ex a lesson. I’m a professional. I can keep things appropriate. Even if the thought of being alone with Emmitt makes my stomach feel as if it’s full of butterflies doing cartwheels.

I stare at my watch for a full minute. The rational thing would be to politely decline and pretend this never happened, but nobody has ever offered to defend me like that. So despite every instinct screaming at me to refuse his offer, I can’t.

But I’m just being practical. Strategic, even. Handling the situation now—privately—before it becomes a workplace issue.

What time? I text back.

The response arrives before I can even take a breath.

Seven. I’ll send the address.