Page 32 of Wrong Number, Right Player
“Always,” I reply, checking my tablet one more time. “I’m here if you need anything.”
Connor follows close behind Derek, wearing a dapper-looking three-piece suit and noise canceling headphones he tugs down as he approaches. Rock music I don’t recognize blares loud enough for the entire building to hear. “McKenna, quick question—”
“Stick to your usual routine,” I interrupt gently. “This isn’t the time for changes. Trust your preparation.”
He nods, looking a touch less nervous as he heads toward the locker room, but I can’t spare the rookie another thought, because beyond him, I see Emmitt approaching from down the hallway. My pulse jumps, but I force myself to maintain my composure, even though, after tonight, everything changes.
“Hey,” he says, stopping at my side. “How’s your day going?”
The question seems odd and somehow loaded with meaning I can’t decipher. Or maybe, it’s his tone. Almost eager. Or maybe, apprehensive. I gesture at the station. “Busy. You know, final preparations for tonight.” I look up at him. “How are you feeling? Ready?”
“More than ready.” His ice-blue eyes search my face as if he’s looking for something specific.
There it is again, something in his voice that strikes me as odd. But it must be Game Seven nerves. This is the biggest matchup of his career. The culmination of everything he’s worked for since childhood. Even an experienced captain like him, who’s usually more laid back than most of the guys on the team, must feel the intense pressure.
“Good.” I lower my voice. “Need anything?”
Something flickers across his expression, and his gaze drops to my lips. “A good-luck kiss?”
I wish.
I click my tongue. “I meant nutrition-wise. At least, until after the game.”
He starts to say something then seems to think better of it. “In that case, I’m good. For now.”
I watch him walk toward the locker room, the nagging feeling I’m missing something important settling in my stomach. But there’s no time to analyze it. There are only a few hours until the opening faceoff.
In my office, an hour later, I’m reviewing final protocols when a sharp knock at my door makes me jump.
When I look up, I nearly do a double take. Linda stands in the doorway, holding a manila folder and wearing a smile that immediately spikes my cortisol.
“McKenna.” She closes the door with deliberate care, the soft click somehow ominous. “Do you have a minute? I have something that is…time sensitive.”
“It can’t wait until after tonight?”
“No.”
My pulse jumps. “Is everything okay? Did someone say something about—”
“Everything’s fine.” She settles into the chair across from my desk, setting the folder on her lap with the kind of precision that suggests whatever’s inside is significant. “Good, actually.”
She opens the folder and pulls out a thick, stapled packet. The Phoenix Freeze logo blazed across the top center of the first page, and a handful of little green flags stuck out from the side that read, “Sign Here.”
A V forms between my brows as I stare at the papers.
“I…I thought you said the contract wouldn’t be ready until after the season ended,” I manage, my voice barely steady. “When contracts are being renegotiated.”
“That was the original timeline, yes.” Linda slides the document across my desk, and even upside down, I confirm it’s a consulting contract. Fully executed. On official Phoenix Freezeletterhead. “Butsomeonemade a very compelling argument on your behalf.”
“Someone?” Is this why Emmitt acted so odd in the hallway earlier?
“Emmitt went to management after the conference finals win.” Linda’s voice carries a gentle but matter-of-fact tone someone in her role likely uses often. “With some help from Assistant Coach Miller, he presented leadership with performance data showing how the team’s stamina advantage throughout the playoffs has been significant. Apparently, the players’ third and extra-period energy levels have impacted breakaway percentages and puck possession time.”
My jaw drops, but I reach for the contract, unable to believe my future is real now, when I thought I still had a few weeks to get everything ready.
You are ready, a voice in the back of my mind whispers.More than ready.
My hands tremble as I flip through the pages. The scope of work is similar to my current position. And the contract grants explicit permission to consult with other professional teams or individual clients. It gives the flexibility to set my own protocols, publish research, and build something entirely mine. It’s a dream come true.
