Page 35 of Wrong Number, Right Player
The game comes together after that. Every line clicking, every defensive play crisp, every goaltending save spectacular. We’re not just playing hockey. We’re making a statement. This is our house. This is our year. This is our Cup.
Rodriguez makes a spectacular glove save in the third that has the entire arena on its feet again. Petrov scores a beauty of a goal on a powerplay, threading it through traffic with surgical precision. Connor delivers a crushing check that separates their top scorer from the puck and draws a roar from the crowd that shakes the building.
With five minutes left and us leading 3-1, I can taste it. The Stanley Cup. The dream I’ve chased since I was seven years old, skating at the old rink with nothing but hope and determination.
When the final buzzer sounds, the arena explodes into pure pandemonium. Confetti cannons fire, streamers fall from the rafters like snow, and grown men who’ve spent their lives hitting pucks with sticks break down in each other’s arms on the ice.
We did it. We actually fucking did it.
The Cup ceremony comes next. As captain, I’m first to touch the silver trophy, first to raise it high over my head and let out a roar from somewhere deep in my soul. It’s heavier than I imagined, solid and real and everything I’ve dreamed about.
Twenty years of work, sacrifice, and determination finally paying off. Every brutal practice, every playoff loss, every moment I questioned if I was good enough—it all led here.
The team celebration is a blur of champagne, tears, and grown men acting like children. Section 108 clears out, with player families making their way onto the ice. But I don’t spot McKenna. It’s like she’s disappeared.
Ten minutes later, when the on-ice celebration settles into something resembling organized chaos, the Freeze PR team is wrangling the players and coaches into position for a team photo. From where I stand in the center of the shot, I see staffmembers, front office personnel, and everyone who’s played a role in this championship streaming in to join us for a picture to capture everyone, from Damian, the owner, to Jorge, the custodian, together.
It’s then I spot her. McKenna, making her way carefully across the ice in sneakers. She’s wearing a Freeze polo, like the other staff, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She’s back to being the team nutritionist for the official photo. Back to maintaining a careful distance with everyone here.
Something twists in my chest at the sight. After everything—after the contract, the risk, the jersey—she’s still thinking like an employee instead of the woman I love.
The photographer positions us in lines behind the Cup, coaches and management in the center, players forming the next few lines, staff filling in around the edges. McKenna ends up near the end of my row.
The second the photographer finishes his shots and releases us, I skate straight to her. Her eyes widen as I approach.
“Emmitt, what—”
But I cut her off, cupping her face in my hands and kissing her right there, in front of twenty thousand fans, dozens of cameras, my teammates and everyone in the Freeze organization. I kiss her as I’ve been wanting to for months, deep and sure and completely without reservation.
Behind us, it takes a minute for the guys realize what’s happening, but then they start cheering.
When we break apart, McKenna’s breathless and flushed and absolutely radiant.
“Everyone’s watching,” she whispers.
“Good,” I say, loud enough for the guys nearby to hear as I shoot a glance over my shoulder. “Let them watch.”
Derek wolf-whistles so loudly it probably violates several noise ordinances. Connor is grinning as if it’s Christmas morning.Even Coach is shaking his head with what looks suspiciously like approval.
“You’re insane,” McKenna laughs, but she’s not pulling away.
“I’m in love,” I correct her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “With the bravest, most brilliant, most beautiful woman I know.”
The photographer points his camera at us. “A few with the captain and his lady?”
McKenna starts to protest, but I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her against my side. “You heard the man,” I say, grinning down at her. “You’re officially my lady now.”
She rolls her eyes but melts against me, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted, right here on this ice. The Cup was the dream I’ve chased my whole life. But McKenna? She’s my future. And I’m never letting her go.
Epilogue McKenna, Three Months Later
Theneonbeersignsand ESPN highlights playing on a dozen screens ofO’Malley’s Sports Barcreate a sensory overload that’s the polar opposite of our usual quiet nights at home. Emmitt’s home, that is, where I’ve basically stayed all summer, although I still have my condo. At least, for now.
“So this is the sports bar you threatened to bring me to,” I say, tugging at the sleeves of Emmitt’s Freeze hoodie.
“I always keep my promises.” His grin is pure trouble as he guides me toward the back corner where half the Phoenix Freeze roster has taken up residence. “Fair warning—they’ve been drinking since four.”
It’s barely seven o’clock on a Thursday in early September, their last hurrah before training camp starts Monday.
