Page 7 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

Emmitt

I have no idea which is more likely to happen in the next five minutes. Either McKenna’s front door will open and she’ll emerge ready to go, or my phone will buzz with a cancellation text.

I sure as hell hope it’s the first option.

Now, I’m sitting here behind the wheel, waiting to see if she’ll actually follow through on what might have been the most impulsive decision of her life. After what was definitely the most convincing I’ve ever had to do in mine.

The jury’s still out, and until she actually climbs into this SUV, I won’t believe our date tonight is really happening.

At exactly 10:00, her front door opens. McKenna steps out, wearing dark jeans, low boots, and a cream-colored sweater that makes her look soft and touchable in a way that has my pulse spiking. She’s got a small crossbody bag on and an expression that conveys her hesitation, loud and clear.

I hop out to open her door, catching a hint of perfume as she approaches with a soft, “Hi.” The scent is light and warm and makes me want to lean in closer.

“You look beautiful.” In the dim light, I can’t see if she blushes as she slides into the front passenger seat, but I imagine that pink flush creeping up her neck the way it did in her office earlier.

“Thank you.”

I close the door and jog around front, climbing in as she buckles her seatbelt. “I have to admit, I wondered if you’d actually come out with me tonight.”

“I almost didn’t,” she breathes, her fingers fidgeting with her bag strap. “I went back and forth about a million times.”

“I’m glad you landed on yes.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I practically hear her brain working. “Emmitt, you know there are valid reasons we shouldn’t be doing this. The team—”

“McKenna.” I reach over and cover her restless hands with one of mine. “Can you do me a favor?”

She turns to face me. “What?”

“Forget all of that. Just for tonight.” I squeeze her hand gently. “No team, no rules, no consequences. Just us.”

She looks down at our joined hands then back up at me. “Just us?”

“Just us.”

Some of the tension leaves her shoulders as she slowly nods. “Okay. Just us. But only tonight.”

We’ll see about that. Not that I have a fucking clue how I’ll make it happen. But I didn’t get to where I am today by sitting on the bench. I’m the captain of a top pro team in the Western Conference because I fought tooth and nail and worked my ass off. For years. And this woman deserves no less.

She settles back in her seat. “So are you going to tell me where we’re going now?”

“One period at a time, there, rookie.”

She snorts. “Did you just quote a hockey cliché to me?”

“Would I do that?” I grin and pull away from the curb, heading toward the industrial part of Phoenix, just south of downtown.

“The way you risked everything by sending me a gift at work and then stopped by my office earlier, I wouldn’t put it past you to take me to some sports bar where half the team hangs out.”

“Someday? Definitely. But not tonight.”

She purses her lips, but I’m not kidding. I want to be able to take her anywhere without having to hide. But not yet. Not until I figure out how this—how we—can be together without getting her fired, and me benched.

I glance over. “How was the rest of your day? After our conversation.”

She’s quiet for a moment, looking out the window. “Not great. I was half-expecting Linda to call me into her office.”

“Linda’s human resources, not a mind reader. Plus, she loves you. Everyone does.”

“You asked her for a copy of the team handbook!”

“I told her I wanted to brush up on team policies, being captain and all.”

“With six games left in the season? There’s no way she bought that as was your real reason.”

I wince. McKenna’s right. When I stopped into HR, Linda’s questioning gaze seemed to pierce right through me. And she did seem more than a little suspicious after I gave her my lame reason for needing a copy. “I can be pretty convincing.”

“Emmitt.” McKenna’s voice carries the edge of panic I heard in her office, earlier. “If she starts asking questions—”

“She won’t. And if she does, I’ll handle it.” I reach over and cover McKenna’s hand with mine, squeezing gently. “I told you I’d figure this out.”

She doesn’t pull away, which feels like a victory. Her skin is soft, and I feel her pulse jumping under my thumb.

“This is crazy,” she murmurs, but she looks at our joined hands as if she’s memorizing the sight.

“Having second thoughts?”

“About fifty per minute.” But she squeezes my hand back. “What about you? Any regrets about asking out the team nutritionist?”

“Just one.”

Her face falls slightly. “What?”

“That I waited two years to do it.”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile that spreads across her face could power the entire city grid. “Smooth talker.”

“I have my moments.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot of a rink just south of downtown that’s been here since I was a kid.

I’ve donated enough to keep it open, but the building’s old, and I see the paint’s peeling in a few spots.

I should do more for the place, after all it did for me.

And I will. But for tonight, it’s perfect.

McKenna stares at the building before her gaze swings back to me. “A skating rink?”

“Not just any skating rink.” I park and kill the engine. “Come on.”

The night air is warm as I grab a pair of my old skates from the back. A pair I’ve had since junior league that seemed like the right choice for tonight. They’re broken in perfectly, comfortable in a way my game skates never are.

I realize now I should have asked if she had skates to bring, but she looks at mine and says, “I should probably mention I haven’t been on skates since I was ten. And even then, I was terrible.”

So no skates of her own. I make a mental note to get some for her. “Good thing you’ve got an excellent teacher.”

I rap twice on the metal front door, and, sure enough, a minute later, the deadbolt slides open.

Frank Torres tugs open the door with a grin that splits his weathered face.

He’s been running this place since before I hit puberty, and he’s the guy who taught me everything I know about reading ice conditions and finding the perfect edge.

“Emmitt, my boy.” Frank claps me on the shoulder with a strength that belies his seventy-something years. “Right on time.”

“Frank, this is McKenna. McKenna, Frank.”

Frank’s eyes light up with interest as he looks her over, taking in the way she stands close enough to me to suggest we’re more than friends.

“Well, well,” he says, extending a weathered hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you, McKenna. You know, in all the years I’ve known this one, he’s never brought a woman here.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I see McKenna processing that, the weight of the detail settling between us.

“Frank—” I start.

“What? It’s true.” He winks at McKenna. “You must be special.”

McKenna’s cheeks blush that beautiful pink again, and she glances at me with something that looks like surprise. As if she’s trying to figure out what it means that I brought her here, to this place that’s mine in a way the team facility will never be.

Frank leads us through the lobby, past trophy cases filled with pictures of youth league champions and community hockey heroes. The smell hits me, a familiar combination of ice and rubber that’s been the backdrop to every important moment in my life.

“Ice is fresh,” Frank says as we reach the rink entrance. He hands me a key on a large ring, the metal cold against my palm. “Turn off the lights and lock up when you’re done.”

“Thanks, Frank. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid. Just don’t do anything stupid.” Frank’s grin takes any sting out of the warning, and he heads toward the exit, leaving us alone at the edge of the rink.

The ice stretches out under the dim overhead lights, pristine and perfect. It’s a smaller rink than I’m used to, more intimate. Perfect.

“It’s beautiful,” McKenna says softly, awe in her voice.

“Wait until you’re on it.”

We slip behind the skate rental counter, where I help McKenna find a pair that fits. I lace up my own before kneeling to tie hers while she sits on the bench, and I try not to think about how I’m now eye level with her chest. "How she's so close her warm breath fans across my forehead.

“They feel weird,” she says, gripping both of my arms as I help her to her feet.

“Just need some breaking in.”

I guide her to the ice, stepping on first. Her grip tightens as if her life depends on me serving as her anchor. I can feel her trembling.

“I’m going to fall.”

“Probably. But I’ll do my best to catch you.”

When she looks up, the trust in her eyes is almost overwhelming. She takes a shaky step onto the rink, then another, cutting off the circulation to my hands.

“Bend your knees a little,” I tell her, skating backwards slowly while she finds her balance. “That’s it. Feel how the blade wants to glide?”

“How do you make this look so easy?”

“Years of practice. But you’re doing great.”

We make slow laps around the rink, her confidence building as I show her how to push off, how to use her edges, how to stop without grabbing the boards.

“Okay, but why does it feel like my ankles are going to snap?” she asks, wobbling as she attempts to glide on her own.

“Because you’re fighting it. The skates are there to support you.” I demonstrate, doing a simple turn. “See? Let the equipment do the work.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve been doing this since you could walk.”

“Pretty much. I’ve been on skates since I was three.” I skate over to her, offering my hands again. “Come on, let’s try the turn together.”

“I’ll take you down with me.”

“Then we’ll both end up on our asses. That’s what the helmets are for.”

She laughs, taking my hands. “We’re not wearing helmets.”

“Details.”

I guide her through a slow turn, her body pressed close to mine. She’s a natural athlete, her body toned and lithe. She adjusts her balance automatically, quickly picking up the mechanics.

“You know,” she says, concentration etched across her face, “this is kind of like dancing. Except more dangerous.”

“Everything fun is dangerous.”

“Is that the Emmitt Buckley philosophy of life?”

“One of them.” I spin us gently, and she laughs as she nearly loses her balance. “The other is that if you’re not falling, you’re not pushing hard enough.”

She stills, not meeting my eyes. “Or you’ve gone too far.”

I let the observation pass. We both know at this moment, I don’t have the answer. I can’t assure her everything will work out.

We spend the next hour with me teaching her the basics.

How to start, how to stop, how to turn without windmilling her arms as if she’s trying to flag down an aircraft.

She falls exactly seven times. I manage to catch her for five of the falls.

Creative cursing that would make the guys in the locker room proud accompanies the other two tumbles.

By the time she manages to skate a full lap on her own, she’s flushed and breathless and absolutely radiant.

“I did it!” she exclaims, coasting over to where I’m waiting by the boards. “Did you see that?”

“Pretty impressive for someone who claimed to be terrible at this.”

“I had an excellent teacher.” She beams at me, tendrils escaping from the ponytail to frame her face. “Though I still think you were showing off with that backward skating thing.”

“That wasn’t showing off. This is showing off.”

I push off into a series of crossovers around the rink, building speed before cutting to a stop only inches in front of her, spraying ice over her legs.

“Okay, that was definitely showing off,” she says, with her hands on her hips.

“Maybe a little. But I wanted to impress you.”

“Mission accomplished.”

There’s something different in her voice, something that makes the air between us feel charged.

“McKenna,” I start, but she’s already moving closer.

I catch her before she can crash into me, my arms wrapping around her waist as her hands land flat against my chest. We’re both breathing hard, her face tilted up toward mine, and the space between us feels electric.

“Nice save,” she whispers.

“I told you I’d catch you.”

The words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning that has nothing to do with skating. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I feel the moment everything shifts.

But before I kiss this woman again, I need to come clean with her. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I say, cupping her face, my palms rough against her soft skin, as I trail my thumb along her cheekbone.

Wrinkles crisscross her brow. “What?”

“I made sure your past won’t interfere with whatever this is between us. This evening, before I picked you up.”

Her jaw drops. “You—”

“He deserved the visit.”

“Did you—”

“I didn’t get physical. I didn’t have to. I simply made it crystal clear how women are to be treated.”

It’s a beat as she processes this and then, before I know it, she’s pressing up onto her toe picks, and kissing me without hesitation, her arms winding around my neck as she presses closer.

It doesn’t take me long to kiss her back, as if I’m drowning and she’s air, the way I’ve been wanting to all night.

This kiss is different from the one in my kitchen. Hungrier. More desperate. As if we’re both tired of pretending this isn’t exactly where we want to be.

When we break apart, her pupils are dilated.

“Emmitt,” she says, my name barely a whisper on her lips.

“Yeah?”

She looks at me for a long moment, and I see the war playing out in her eyes. Want versus caution. Heart versus head. Her hands slide down, over my shoulders, but she rests them flat on my chest as if she can’t quite bring herself to separate completely from me.

“We should probably go,” she murmurs but still doesn’t move away.

“Probably.”

“This is…” She trails off, looking around the empty rink as if she’s trying to find the right words.

“Crazy?”

“I was going to say perfect.” The admission seems to surprise her as much as it does me. “God, what are you doing to me?”

I trace my thumb along her jawline, feeling her shiver. “Same thing you’re doing to me.”

She closes her eyes, leaning into my touch.

“Take me home,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.

“McKenna—”

“Please.” When she opens her eyes, they’re dark with want and something that looks like surrender. “I know I shouldn’t want this. I could list a hundred reasons sleeping together is a terrible idea. But I can’t… I can’t make myself care about any of that right now.”

Her voice breaks slightly on the last words, and I see how much this admission costs her. McKenna, who always has a plan, who weighs every decision, is choosing to let go of control.

“Are you sure?” I ask, my cock as hard as steel. I need to hear her say it one more time. I need confirmation I didn’t imagine she invited me to her bed out of sheer desire.

She nods. “Although there’s a strong chance I’ll change my mind at least a dozen times on the way home.”