Page 28 of Wrong Number, Right Player
“That approach isn’t always viable once an athlete has been exposed to…enhanced protocols,” Emmitt says carefully, his voice barely above normal conversation level but somehow feeling intimate.
Heat creeps up my neck. I’m conscious of how this must sound to Connor, who’s moved to a different station but is clearly within earshot.
“Enhanced protocols may work temporarily,” I reply, trying to inject more clinical distance into my tone. “But long-term implementation requires careful consideration of all variables.”
Emmitt pushes off the wall, his eyes darkening as he takes a step closer, then visibly checks himself when he glances toward Connor. His jaw tightens with barely concealed frustration at the forced distance, his hands clenching at his sides as if he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for me, but he gives me a pointed look. “I’m not looking for a temporary adjustment. I want a more…permanent restructuring of my entire program.”
My breath catches. I knew there was something between us, something unmistakable, but this declaration, so soon? “Permanent restructuring requires…” I have to clear my throat, shooting a glance at Connor adjusting weights nearby. “That level of systemic change demands extensive research, comprehensive planning. And complete separation during the transition phase to ensure optimal results. Then time to evaluate the changes.”
His eyes flash with understanding then with something that looks like relief. “Not a problem.”
I can’t help the smile that fills my face, but I force myself to look down. “Glad to hear it.”
“Speaking of transitions,” Emmitt continues, his tone more confident, “I’ve got a contact who would benefit from your expertise. My buddy, Hays Granger.”
Connor glances over at the mention of the name, clearly recognizing it, but doesn’t interrupt our conversation.
“A golfer?” My brow furrows at the mention of the champion who lives in Scottsdale.
“He’s an elite athlete. And a friend of mine. He’s been asking about performance nutrition for tournament optimization. That something you could help him with?”
I blink, trying to process this information while maintaining professional composure. “Golf nutrition involves different metabolic demands than hockey. Endurance-based rather than anaerobic power output, but… I think I could develop an effective protocol.”
“I’ll give him your number.” His smile is soft but certain, the expression of a man who believes in me completely.
“You’ll give him my number?” I repeat suggestively, unable to resist giving Emmitt a hard time, despite everything swirling between us.
“For business reasons only,” Emmitt is quick to clarify, his voice taking a sharp edge. “A strictly professional consultation.” His eyes find mine with an intensity that makes it clear he’s not offering to connect me with another man for any reason other than work.
Connor pauses his movement and watches us now, the wheels practically turning in his head.
I clear my throat, tilting my head toward the rookie. “That demonstrates considerable confidence in my capabilities,” I manage, hoping he gets my drift. “But regarding the transition timeline… Complete separation will be necessary. No contact during the implementation phase. That could be…challenging.”
Emmitt’s jaw tightens. “Challenging,” he agrees, his voice rougher now. “But some restructuring projects are worth the temporary…difficulty.”
You can say that again.
“That’s all I need for now regarding your assessment,” I say, standing. “After you get me that sample, I should be able to put together a comprehensive report.”
“McKenna,” Emmitt says, my name rough on his lips, and I can hear everything he wants to say in those three syllables. But now’s not the time.
“Get me that sample before practice, and I’ll have those results ready by the end of the day.”
I tuck the stylus back into its slot and, with one last meaningful glance, head for the exit. But I feel Emmitt’s eyes on me with every step. At the doorway, I risk one glance back. He’s standing exactly where I left him, hands still clenched at his sides, watching me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
Our eyes meet for just a second, and in that moment, everything we can’t say passes between us. The promise, the commitment, the acknowledgment that I’ll bet everything on us.
Then I turn and walk away, knowing he’s still watching, knowing the next time we’re alone together, everything will have changed.
Emmitt
Theburnerphonefeelsheavy in my hands tonight. Maybe, because I know McKenna’s three floors below me in this same damn hotel. Close enough I could sprint down the stairs and be knocking on her door in under two minutes. Which is exactly why I’m staying put like the disciplined captain everyone thinks I am.
I pace the length of my suite, the city lights of Vancouver stretching out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. We won the first match of the conference finals tonight—dominated, actually—and I should be riding high. We’re three wins from earning a chance to win it all in the Stanley Cup Finals. As few as seven wins from everything I’ve dreamed about since I was seven years old.
But tonight, all I can think about is how McKenna looked when I spotted her in the tunnel after the game. Professional smile, team polo, tablet in hand. She congratulated the entireteam in a careful, measured tone. And tried not to look at me for too long as I passed her.
Three floors. Might as well be three countries.
