Page 29 of Wrong Number, Right Player
It’s nearly midnight, but I dial the number to her burner. Ten digits I memorized the day I set up both our spare lines. It was the only thing I could do, a lifeline that’s made these past few weeks bearable. Barely.
Three rings then her face fills the screen, and my chest expands as it always does when she answers. Every damn night since before the end of the regular season and through two rounds of playoffs.
“Hey, stranger.” Her smile transforms from the polite professional mask I saw earlier to something real. Something just for me.
She’s in a hotel terry-cloth robe, hair damp from the shower, sitting cross-legged on her bed. The sight of her bare shoulder, with the thinnest of pink straps peeking out from the fluffy white neckline, makes my mouth go dry.
“Hey, yourself. How was your day?” I sink into the oversized chair by the window, trying to look casual when every cell in my body is hyperaware she’s three floors away. On a hotel bed.
“Productive, actually.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I fit in a new client consultation around lunchtime, and Hays referred another golfer from his club. Plus, the website officially launched this morning.”
The pride in her voice spreads something warm through my chest. “McKenna, that’s incredible. Show me.”
She angles her phone so I can see her laptop screen as she pulls up the site. Clean, professional, with a headshot that makes her look smart and approachable. And also fucking beautiful.
She clicks around the few pages that are up so far. Her brother’s best friend helped her with it, and it’s great, perfectly her. Passionate but grounded, scientific but human.
“You built an empire in weeks,” I say, meaning every word.
“Hardly an empire. More like a tiny kingdom. Maybe a duchy.” But she’s grinning now, the kind of uninhibited smile I live for. “What about you? How are you feeling about the game?”
Most people ask about goals or saves or highlight-reel plays. McKenna asks how I’m feeling, because she always wants to know what’s happening in my head.
“Good. Really good. Rodriguez made some incredible stops in the second period. Really kept us in it when the offense was pressing.”
“Your goal in the first was a great start. And that assist in the third to Derrick? Man, that was exciting.”
“I’m glad I could put on a good show for you.”
Her expression softens. “Me, too. I love watching you play. It’s…” She trails off, looking suddenly shy.
“It’s what?”
“Hot,” she admits, color rising in her cheeks.
“Keep talking like that, and I’ll forget why staying in this room is a good idea,” I say, my voice rough.
Her eyes darken. “What room number are you in?”
“McKenna.”
“I’m just asking.”
“4705.”
“I’m in 4417.” She bites her lower lip, a gesture that sends heat straight to my groin. “That’s not very far.”
“Far enough.” I grip the phone tighter. “You know we can’t risk—”
“I know.” Her voice is soft but certain. “Especially with the team playoff rules during travel. Now, with players under strict guidelines, you’re the one who can’t enjoy company.”
“As if things weren’t hard enough already.”
“You’re protecting something that matters to me more than you’ll ever know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish things were different. Already in place.”
The longing in her voice matches the ache that’s been living in my chest for weeks. “Tell me about it. I’ve been going insane being so near you every damn day, and today, when you bit your pen during the meeting—”
“Bit my pen?” She looks genuinely confused.
