Page 4 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

Emmitt

M cKenna’s perched on the edge of my couch, in jeans and a soft gray sweater, looking as if she’s ready to bolt.

Her hands are folded in her lap as if she’s in a job interview instead of my living room.

I can practically see the thoughts running through her head: This is a terrible idea. You should leave. Now.

I’ve never seen her hair down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders instead of the tight ponytail she always wears at work.

It makes her look younger. More like the woman in that marathon photo on her desk, unguarded and gorgeous.

The urge to hunt down her ex and introduce him to the business end of a body check hits me so hard I have to grip the pizza boxes tighter.

She rubs the small scar on her chin. A tell I’ve noticed in meetings but never understood until tonight. It’s her anchor when she’s uncertain. I need to find a way to put her at ease before she talks herself out of staying.

“You'll be glad to know,” I say, handing her a bottle of water, “this playlist is Nickelback-free.”

That gets me a smile, and her shoulders drop an inch. Maybe two. For the first time since she walked in, she looks more like the woman I watch in team meetings when someone makes a lame joke.

I grab a couple of plates and napkins. “Hope you’re hungry. There’s Margherita, pepperoni, and a loaded veggie that definitely seems like something you’d approve of.”

“Seems like, maybe, you didn’t need a nutrition consultation for this pizza emergency .”

So she’s on to me. I’m not surprised with the brilliant head on her shoulders.

I set the boxes on the coffee table and hand her a plate and napkin. “What can I say? I’ve learned from the best. You’ve turned half the team into guys who actually read ingredient labels.”

She tries to hide the pleased smile that graces her gorgeous lips by opening the Margherita box and selecting a slice, but I catch sight of it, and make a mental note to compliment her more, if that’s the reward.

She settles back against the couch cushions.

“Smells good. I’ve never heard of Rico’s. ”

“It’s over on Hayden, south of Shea.” I take the other end of the couch and grab a slice of pepperoni, trying not to notice how she closes her eyes and makes a little hum of appreciation when she takes the first bite of her pizza.

Especially when we’re six games from the post-season, already locked into the playoffs, and I should be studying tape, not wondering what else I can do to get McKenna to make that sound.

“So,” I say, shifting in my seat to ease the pressure in my crotch, “want to tell me about this ex?”

Her expression hardens, but not defensively. It’s more like she’s remembering why she was pissed off in the first place.

“Emmitt,” she scowls. “His name is Emmitt, too.”

“Is that how—”

“I messaged the wrong person? Yeah.” She winces. “My phone syncs personal and work contacts, so you were both right there, and I thought I clicked on him, but…”

“You got me instead.” I can’t help but grin.

“Yup,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile now. “When I got home last night, my stuff from his place was dumped on my front porch in a torn garbage bag. Two years’ worth of things, just sitting there like trash.”

The image of McKenna coming home exhausted after the grueling road trip to find that on the porch makes my blood run hot.

“What a fucking coward.” The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can’t help it. “I’m serious about getting his address, McKenna. That’s not just a breakup—that’s a dick move.”

“Yeah, well,” she says with a shrug, “apparently, I was too ‘intense’ and ‘career-focused.’”

The fierce protectiveness that sparked this morning flares to life in my chest, hotter than before.

This brilliant, passionate woman was made to feel as if she was too much?

I want to tell her intensity is exactly what makes her so magnetic.

That watching her get fired up about nutrient timing or shut down Derek’s cavalier attitude about fiber with one raised eyebrow is the highlight of most team meetings.

However, saying that crosses lines we’re both pretending don’t exist.

“Sounds like he was intimidated.”

“You think?”

“You don’t? Only a coward, unconfident in his own work, would put down a woman who excels at hers.”

She meets my eyes, and there’s something like surprise in their hazel depths. As if she’d never thought of it that way.

My phone buzzes on the side table, but I ignore it. “What does he do? For a living?”

“Corporate finance.” She takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I met him at the grocery store when I first moved here. He was in the protein bar section comparing ingredients, and I offered some advice about macronutrients.”

I fight a smile. “As one does.”

“It was sweet, really,” she insists, but then her smile fades. “He was into health and fitness, which was great.”

I’m into health and fitness, but I choose not to point it out right now. “But?”

“But after a while, it became this competition. Like he was trying to out-healthy me, you know? Like he knew everything.”

I can picture it now, some suit-wearing wannabe athlete trying to mansplain nutrition to McKenna. “He really was an asshole.”

“It was infuriating. Plus, when we broke up, he insisted we could still be friends,” she continues, taking another bite of pizza. “But he doesn’t actually want to stay friends. He just needs me for when the Freeze make the playoffs and he wants a hookup for tickets.”

Something dark and possessive flares in my chest. My hands curl into fists before I can stop them. “Are you serious?”

“I mean, I can’t prove it, but…” She shrugs, trying to keep her tone light, but I hear the hurt underneath. The pain in her voice cuts through me like a skate blade through the ribs. “He was always asking about work stuff. Team events, team parties. Whether I could get extra tickets to home games.”

“That piece of shit.” The words come out rougher than I intend, anger burning hot in my throat. He wasn’t just a terrible boyfriend—he was using her. Treating this brilliant, passionate woman as if she were nothing more than someone to exploit.

Her eyes widen slightly at my reaction. “It’s fine. I—”

“It’s not fine.” I lean forward, every protective instinct I have roaring to life.

“You’re not some networking opportunity, McKenna.

You’re not a way to get closer to the team or a hookup for tickets.

You’re…” I stop myself, realizing I’m about to say something that will probably scare her off.

Something that will reveal exactly how gone I am for her already.

“I’m what?” she asks softly, her hazel eyes searching my face.

The truth sits heavy on my tongue. She’s everything I think about. She’s the reason I take notes during her presentations just to have an excuse to watch her work. The idea of some asshole using her makes me want to put my fist through something. But I can’t tell her any of that.

“You’re everything he was too stupid to appreciate,” I say finally, my voice rough with conviction.

Her expression goes slack before she glances down at her plate and swallows hard. I need to lighten the mood, need to reel it in before I scare her off.

“But also you don’t steal a nutritionist’s condiments,” I add, shooting her a smile. “Even I know you better than that.”

She meets my gaze, and her whole face transforms. No wonder she keeps her real smile locked away at work. It’s devastating.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” She waves a hand dismissively, but her voice wavers just enough to give her away. “Other than the fact he also ‘borrowed’ my Netflix password since I ‘never watched anything good, anyway.’”

“What’s your definition of good?”

“True crime. Some documentaries. The occasional foreign film.” She pauses. “What?”

I’m grinning, and she’s looking at me as if I’ve grown a second head.

“Nothing. You just keep surprising me.”

“How?”

“True crime? Really?”

Her cheeks go pink again. “It’s my guilty pleasure. I know it’s weird, but there’s something about the puzzle of it, you know? Fitting the pieces together.”

“It’s not weird. It’s fascinating.” McKenna Ryan, who I’ve watched give presentations on nutrient timing like she’s briefing the military, spends her free time watching stories about murder. Interesting.

“I just finished this series about art forgery that was insane.” She stops herself, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I know it’s not exactly dinner conversation.”

“Are you kidding? I’m into biographies and memoirs. Not exactly a riveting dinner conversation starter, either.”

It’s her turn to look surprised. She glances over at my bookshelf, really looking at it for the first time. “Are those ones you’ve read?”

I follow her gaze to the collection that takes up most of one wall. “I know, not what you’d expect from a guy who gets paid to hit a puck into a net.”

She stands and walks over to the shelves, running her finger along the spines. “Jordan, Ali, Serena Williams…” She tugs one out a little. “Is this about the 1980 Olympic hockey team?”

“One of my favorites. The mental game those guys had to play, going up against the Soviets…”

“The pressure must have been insane.” She pulls out a biography of John McCain, flipping to the back cover. “This is fascinating. I had no idea you were into this stuff.”

“Most people don’t.”

She turns back to me, and there’s something different in her expression now. As if she’s seeing me instead of just a player she’s trying to maximize nutrition for. As if I’m not the two-hundred pound captain of the Phoenix Freeze right now. “You’re full of surprises, Emmitt Buckley.”

The way she says my name tightens my chest. Like maybe I’m the type of man she can take seriously. This morning, I knew I was in trouble the second she texted back ‘what time’, but now? I’m a complete goner.

“You’re one to talk, McKenna Ryan, lover of true crime and guys who read nutrition labels.”