Page 37 of Wrong Number, Right Player
“Nope,” Emmitt interrupts, covering my mouth with his hand. “Some things stay private.”
I lick his palm, and his eyes darken, his thumb brushing my bottom lip before Petrov’s voice cuts through the moment. “Get a room.”
“Yeah,” Connor adds. “Some of us are still single and don’t need the reminder.’”
Emmitt’s hand finds mine under the table, his fingers threading between mine in a way that’s second nature now.
“Speaking of new clients,” Derek says wickedly, “I heard McKenna’s working with the Inferno now?”
“Baseball not a real sport,” Petrov declares.
“You clearly don’t understand the strategic complexity—” I start then stop myself. “You know what? I’m not defending baseball to guys who think fighting on ice skates is legitimate conflict resolution.”
“Whatever. At least, we’re not working with soccer players,” Derek continues.
“Actually, I am working with the ASU women’s soccer team. Pro bono.” I can’t resist the setup. “And their cardiovascular endurance metrics are significantly better than yours.”
The table goes silent.
“VO2 max, lactate threshold, recovery heartrate—the soccer girls outperform you in every category.”
“Are they…single?” Connor asks hopefully.
“Connor,” I say flatly, “these women are college athletes focused on their sport and their education. I wouldn’t introduce you, even if you begged.”
“Worth asking,” he mumbles.
“Besides,” I continue, “half of them could probably bench press you.”
“Now, that’s just hurtful,” Connor protests.
“You know,” Derek says, lifting his glass in my direction, “you’re different now. Happier. More relaxed.”
“McKenna getting…what do you call it? Laid?” Petrov asks, looking around the table for confirmation.
“Hey,” Emmitt starts, leaning forward protectively, but I squeeze his thigh to stop him.
“Yes, Petrov, that’s right. And I could explain all the physical and psychological benefits for you guys, but considering howmuch bragging about conquests I’ve heard over the years, I’m pretty sure you don’t need any more encouragement.”
A few of them have the grace to look guilty, but not Derek. “There’s nothing wrong with getting laidandstaying single,” the left winger declares, raising his beer. “Some of us appreciate our freedom.”
“Freedom to do what? Eat cereal for dinner and wear the same jeans three days in a row?” I ask.
“Exactly! The dream. No offense, McKenna, but the whole relationship thing looks exhausting.”
“Your no-strings lifestyle involving what, exactly?” Emmitt chimes in. “Tinder dates and takeout?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Cap.”
The waitress stops by again, her attention seeming to rest on Emmitt.
“How’s everything tasting?” she asks, leaning in close.
“Fine,” Emmitt says shortly, his hand moving to my thigh.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” she purrs.
After she leaves, I raise an eyebrow. “Popular tonight?”
