Page 6 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)
McKenna
T he next day, the second the team hits the ice for practice, I’m sneaking through the facility as if I’m conducting some sort of covert operation. Which, given that I’m about to confess potentially job-ending behavior to my work bestie, isn’t far from the truth.
My nervous system and judgment have apparently decided to betray me. My hands shake, my pulse seems to be doing an interpretive dance, and I’m pretty sure I’ve developed a nervous tick in my left eye.
I bypass the main hallways where someone might spot me looking like I’m fleeing a crime scene, duck through the equipment room with a fleeting wave at Tommy, and slip into the athletic training area.
Whitney is setting up for the post-practice sessions.
She’s organizing resistance bands with the kind of methodical precision that makes me think she missed her calling as a surgeon.
She looks up and immediately frowns. “What the hell is wrong?”
“Whitney.” I grab her arm with what I’m sure is an entirely normal amount of desperation. “I need to tell you something, and you’re going to think I’ve completely lost my mind. Which, statistically speaking, might be accurate.”
She gives me her full attention, which somehow makes this worse. “Spill.”
I glance around to make sure we’re alone then drag her to the corner farthest from the wide opening to the hallway. What I’m about to confess requires maximum privacy and possibly witness protection.
“I got home on Tuesday, and my stuff from Emmitt’s place was dumped on my porch. A couple of glasses of wine later, I left him a few ranting voice memos—”
“A few?”
“Five. Telling him precisely what I thought about our relationship and his rebound girlfriend and his condiment theft habits.”
She grins. “Finally, you tell the bastard off.”
“Except I didn’t tell him off.” I stop pacing and face her, bracing for impact. “I accidentally sent the memos to Emmitt Buckley.”
A resistance band slips from Whitney’s hands and hits the floor with a soft thud. “What?”
“You know how our phones sync the team contact list?”
“Yeah, but—”
“They were right there together, and apparently, wine makes me functionally illiterate because I clicked the wrong name.” I’m gesturing wildly now, which is never a good sign.
Whitney hops onto one of the treatment tables. “Please tell me you’re not here right now, this panicked, because he didn’t ignore them.”
“Ignore them?” I scoff. “He asked who this ‘Emmitt asshole’ is and wanted his address. Then he said different rules apply when he’s off duty, and somehow, that led to an invitation to come over for pizza and I—”
“Please tell me you didn’t go.”
I give her a look that admits the depths of my poor decision making.
“Oh my God, you went.” She’s staring at me as if I’ve announced my intention to quit my job and become a circus performer. “McKenna, what were you thinking?”
I throw my hands up. “I thought it would be damage control. That I could apologize in person and assure him I didn’t need Emmitt ‘taken care of.’”
“But that’s not what happened, is it?”
My face scrunches up. “We talked for three hours and…” And this is where I admit my second catastrophic mistake of the week. “When I was leaving…he kissed me.”
The silence stretches so long I’m pretty sure Whitney’s stopped breathing. When I finally look up, she’s staring at me with the kind of horror usually reserved for compound fractures.
“He what?”
“Well, technically, we kissed each other. I mean, he started it, but I definitely participated. Enthusiastically.” I bury my face in my hands. “Oh God, I kissed Emmitt Buckley. In his kitchen. For like…a really long time.”
My cortisol levels must be through the roof. I can practically feel my blood sugar crashing from the stress, which explains why my hands won’t stop shaking and my brain feels like it’s running on fumes.
“Holy shit, McKenna.” Whitney’s voice is barely a whisper. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”
“I know!”
“Do you? Because you don’t look like someone who knows how bad this is. You look like someone who’s trying not to smile while talking about kissing the team captain.”
She’s right. Even now, thinking about the way Emmitt’s huge hand felt cupping my face, the way he kissed me as if I were the answer to a question he’d been asking for years, makes my stomach flutter in ways that are completely inappropriate for someone having a career crisis.
“It was just… God, Whitney, it was perfect. And terrifying. And completely insane.” I bounce harder on the exercise ball.
“But it was so good I temporarily forgot about things like employment contracts and professional conduct policies and the fact that this could destroy everything I’ve worked for. ”
She slides off the treatment table and starts pacing. “What happened after this amazing kiss?”
“I panicked. Told him it couldn’t happen again and basically ran out of there like the building was on fire.”
“Okay, good. You ended it there,” she says, moving into disaster management mode. “Emmitt’s smart. He knows the stakes. He’ll keep his distance now, and you can pretend this never happened.”
I nod, her observation making complete sense. Maybe, I’m overthinking this. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sure—”
“McKenna?”
Whitney and I both freeze as if we’ve been caught stealing state secrets.
It’s Sarah from the front desk, who’s just come in and sounds confused. “Oh, I’m glad I found you. Sorry to interrupt, but a package for you just got delivered to the front desk, which is…weird? I mean, you never have personal stuff sent here.”
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. Sarah’s right. I don’t order things to work. Ever. I keep my personal and professional lives in completely separate, clearly labeled containers, specifically to avoid situations like this.
Whitney shoots me a questioning look that screams, What did you do?
Sarah comes in, and sure enough, the package she hands over is addressed to me. Just me personally, with no team name in sight. I accept it, my hands trembling as if it’s their default setting now.
The second she’s gone, Whitney’s at my side like a detective examining evidence. “What is it? Who’s it from?”
No return address. No company name. But somehow, deep in my gut where bad decisions are born, I already know.
“Open it,” Whitney urges. Her voice has that dangerous edge of someone who’s about to witness a train wreck.
I rip off the tape and open the flaps. Inside is a book, The Gardner Heist: The True Story of the World’s Largest Unsolved Art Theft .
But that’s not all. Nestled next to the book is a small bottle of hot sauce from a popular local Mexican restaurant, with its own little note tied around the neck with string: For your eggs .
My lungs stop working. He remembered. Not just the true crime conversation, but my ridiculous rant about hoping my ex’s new girlfriend would suggest hot sauce for his eggs and remind him of me.
“Holy shit,” Whitney breathes, reading over my shoulder. “McKenna. He sent you a book and hot sauce. To work. Where anyone could see.” She picks up the hot sauce bottle, examining it like evidence. “This isn’t just thoughtful; he’s staking his claim.”
“Staking his claim would be sending me his jersey. This is just…a thoughtful gesture. From a colleague. Who listened when I talked. Plus, his name’s not anywhere on here.”
She looks skeptical. “What the hell are you going to do?”
And that’s the million-dollar question. Because staring at this box, I feel my carefully constructed professional walls crumbling as if they’re made of graham crackers and wishful thinking.
“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “If this gets out, we’re both screwed. He’s not just any player, He’s the face of the franchise. The guy who led them to the Stanley Cup semi-finals last year. And I’m—”
“Fired.”
My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
The familiar sound of skates with guards on the blades echoes from the hallway, followed by a voice calling out, “Whitney? You there? My shoulder, it hurts.”
It’s Petrov, which means practice is still going on, but he needs ice or tape or whatever magical healing Whitney provides. Still, any player entering this space, while I’m holding evidence of my inappropriate relationship, feels like a potential disaster.
“Coming!” Whitney calls back then turns to me with an urgent look.
I jump up, clutching the box to my chest. “I have to go. I can’t— I need to think.”
“McKenna—”
“I know what you’re going to say, and you’re probably right, but I can’t process this right now. I… He…” I don’t finish the thought, and I’m halfway to the door when she whisper-hisses my name. I stop and look back.
“During your presentations, have you noticed how Emmitt always takes notes?”
“Yeah, but—”
“He never writes anything down. In any other meeting. Ever.”
My heart does that stupid fluttery thing again, and I realize with dawning horror that Whitney’s right. And also that I’m not just attracted to Emmitt Buckley. I’m falling for him. Hard. Fast. In direct violation of every rational thought I’ve ever had.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it—except that I need to figure it out before I see him again. Given the fact he’s presently on the ice in this very building, that could be approximately five minutes from now.
Fantastic.