Page 34 of Wrong Number, Right Player
Linda assured me the contract was ready. That McKenna just had to sign it. But knowing my girl, she probably read every line twice and analyzed the risk-benefit ratio. She may even be is waiting to call an attorney for advice. Which I wouldn’t blame her for. This is her entire career we’re talking about.
The seat for the ticket I saved, just in case things came together, is empty. Section 108, Row 3, Seat 14—a spot I’ve mesmerized like a target. Right where I can see her. If she uses it.
Frank is there in Seat 16. I nod to him, remembering the way he choked up yesterday when I personally delivered the gameticket to him at the rink. The way he pulled me in for a hug and told me how proud of me he was.
I swallow the lump in my throat and complete another warmup lap, my skates gliding over the still-smooth ice. I’m scanning the crowd, trying to take in the moment without letting the gravity of tonight’s game get to me, but it isn’t easy. The arena is packed to capacity, a sea of Phoenix Freeze jerseys and teal towels waving like battle flags. The noise in here is deafening.
Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. At home. Everything we’ve worked off our asses for comes down to the next three periods. Sixty minutes of all-out play once that puck hits the ice.
The opening faceoff approaches, and my eyes sweep Section 108 again. Still no sign of her familiar dark hair, no glimpse of the woman who’s been starring in my dreams for years. And consuming my heart for weeks.
Maybe, she’s running late. Maybe, she decided the risk was too great. Maybe—
Then I spot her.
She’s squeezing in front of other friends and family down Row 3, exactly where she should be. But my heart trips midbeat, and I nearly careen into the boards when I see what she’s wearing.
My jersey. Number twelve. BUCKLEY stretched across her shoulders like a declaration that makes something primal and possessive roar to life in my chest. She actually did it. Signed the contract, took the leap, chose us. And now, she’s finding her seat in the section where she belongs. Wearing my name and proclaiming she’s mine.
The sight of her hits me so hard I have to grip my stick to keep from dropping it. For two years, she’s watched the games from somewhere I couldn’t see her. Either in the back or down the tunnel. Now, she’s front and center where every camera might catch her, where every fan can see exactly who she’s here for.
She finds her seat, greeting Frank with a warm hug, but doesn’t sit—everyone’s on their feet. Her gaze scans the ice until she spots me, and then she smiles. Not the polite, measured smile I’m used to seeing in this building, but the real one. The one that transforms her entire face and makes me want to leap over the glass.
Christ, she’s beautiful. And brave as hell.
My heart knocks against my ribs. And suddenly, a thought hits me, one that feels absolutely right.
There should be a ring on her finger. A diamond as gorgeous as she is. A symbol I want forever with her. A token to ensure she knows she’s not the only one who’s willing to go all in on us. Something that confirms I don’t want her here just for tonight, but for every game, every season, every championship run for the rest of my career.
The ref’s whistle cuts through my daydream.
“You good, Cap?” Derek asks, his gaze trailing over to the section I was just staring at as we line up for the anthem.
“Never better.”
And it’s true. Having McKenna here, where I can see her cheering for me, no longer forced to hide what we mean to each other? It changes everything. For weeks, I’ve played with an undercurrent of constant stress, a fear I might lose her. Now, she’s here in my jersey, and it feels as if someone just lifted a truck off my chest.
The next few minutes are a sensory overload that somehow feels both eternal and lightning-fast. I can barely keep still as the anthem singer’s voice echoes through the arena. Twenty thousand fans sing along, their voices creating a wall of sound that vibrates through my skates and into my bones.
As it finishes, pyrotechnics explode from the rafters, filling the arena with smoke and white sparks, while teal towels wave in the air. It’s pure chaos, pure energy, and I feed off every second ofit. When we line up for the opening faceoff, the refs go through their final checks with the goalies, and I catch McKenna’s eye one more time. She’s on her feet with everyone else, towel in hand, cheering for us. For me.
The ref drops into position, puck ready, and everything crystallizes into this single moment. This is it. Game Seven. For the Cup. For everything.
I play like a man possessed.
Every shift feels effortless, every pass crisp and precise. The puck seems to find my stick like it’s magnetized, and my teammates feed off the energy I’m putting out. Even Derek, who’s usually wound tighter than a spring during big games, looks loose and confident.
“Whatever you’re on, Cap, bottle it and sell it,” he says, during a line change.
But I know exactly what it is. It’s freedom. It’s playing for something bigger than just the Cup—playing for my teammates and coaches and the woman who risked everything to be in the stands tonight. The gorgeous, brilliant bombshell who chose me.
Eight minutes into the second period, Connor threads a perfect pass through traffic, and suddenly, I’m alone with the goalie. I don’t overthink it. I just release it with everything I’ve got.
The puck rockets past the goalie’s glove and into the top corner with a satisfying thwap that sends the arena into absolute chaos. The goal horn blares, towels wave like a teal army, and my teammates mob me against the glass.
But through it all, I find her.
McKenna is on her feet screaming, arms raised above her head, exhilaration evident in every line of her body. I lock eyes with her across the ice and nod. Her smile could power the entire building.
