McKenna
Istareindisbeliefatthe ripped garbage bag slumped against the front door of my condo, rage churning in my stomach. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and apparently, my ex has decided that dropping off two years worth of my personal items, without so much as a heads up, is a mature route to closure. I could kill him.
The jerk knew for a fact I’ve been out of town. He probably dumped the bag here the second the team plane departed for Montreal last Sunday. I’ll bet he even snapped a picture of the sad sight, as if he were a driver who needed proof of delivery even though he didn’t actually give a shit if the package got stolen.
The thoughtless return is bad enough. But I’m running on fumes after landing an hour ago from a grueling late-season, seven-game road trip. Dragging two suitcases, a backpack, and a cooler up my front steps in the dark when my spine feels as if it’s fused into one cranky rod. The fact that one of my favoritesweatshirts is hanging half out of the flimsy plastic is the final buzzer on this shitshow of a month.
I nudge the bag with my foot, the crinkle silencing the chirping crickets in the dark. My ex is hella lucky no desert critters scurry out or else he’d be getting an earful. He just might anyway. I’m that pissed off.
Three minutes later, I’ve hauled everything inside. I kick off my sneakers, roll my shoulders, and abandon my suitcases in the front hallway next to the bag. I’m too tired to unpack. Too hungry to think straight. And too emotionally fried to pretend this doesn’t sting.
I know better than to let myself get this depleted. Hunger plus exhaustion is how cravings win. How mistakes happen. How you end up sobbing into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and calling it dinner.
But tonight? I don’t care. I go straight for the Pinot Grigio. The one in the back of my fridge my brother sent from Napa when he was wine-tasting with his best friend, a Silicon Valley tech bro, in March. I’ve been saving the bottle for aspecial occasion.Tonight qualifies. Especially now.
Five minutes later, I’ve poured myself a generous glass, changed into my jammies, and sunk onto my couch with the grace of a wounded water buffalo. I should eat a real meal. But first, I give myself five minutes for a quick social media check, the mindless scroll calling my name like a drug dealer in a dark alley.
And that’s when I see it.
Emmitt’s post.
A loft-style living room with exposed brick I don't recognize. Dim lighting. A reclaimed-wood coffee table with two wine glasses and a blonde in a crop top doing that fake candid laugh thing where her head’s thrown back just enough to show off her perfectly contoured cheekbones, one manicured hand reachingfor a wine glass as if she’s starring in a lifestyle blog abouteffortless elegance.
The caption reads: “Finally found my person ??”
My heart kicks in my chest.
Finally found my person.
This from the man who broke up with me three and a half weeks ago because I was “too focused on work” and “didn’t prioritize our relationship.”
Apparently, his newpersonfits the bill. She probably doesn’t spend her free time researching the latest sports nutrition studies instead of shopping or doing yoga or whatever gorgeous blondes do. She probably lights candles and takes baths and doesn’t fall asleep reading peer-reviewed journals.
I drain my glass and rub the scar on my chin.
Dinner. I need dinner before I commit a felony.
I open the delivery app on my phone and click on the twenty-four-hour Chinese-Mexican fusion place down the street that caters to the Old Town, late-night, bar-hopping crowd. One orange chicken burrito lands in my cart, but I add extra veggies and sub brown rice for white. Because ordering a straight sodium- and msg-loaded gut bomb when I lecture professional athletes about the importance of good nutrition for a living feels like admitting defeat.
After the confirmation comes through, I pour myself another glass of wine and stare at my ex’s post some more. And read the comments. Friends congratulating the jerk as if he wasn’t single for less than twenty-four days.
As if I were a two-year warmup.
I open my contacts and scroll to his name. Smart McKenna would have deleted his contact entirely instead of just demoting him from favorites. But no. After he fed me that whole ‘we can still be friends’ bullshit, which actually translates to ‘save mynumber for when I want to hit you up for playoff tickets,’ I apparently lost all ability to set healthy boundaries.
So I didn’t delete him. He’s still there.
Emmitt Wilson—ex-boyfriend, condiment thief, complete jerkwad.
Right below the other Emmitt in my phone.
Emmitt Buckley—Phoenix Freeze team captain, star forward, walking HR violation.
My finger stills. Professional contacts are mixed with personal ones thanks to a team-funded phone, making me accessible to the players twenty-four seven.
Emmitt Buckley is the last man on earth I should think about tonight. His melt-your-panties-right-off-your-body smile is the reason I stare at his shoulder during meetings. Avoiding his chiseled six-pack abs is my motivation for steering clear of the hallway between the rink and the locker room after practice.
He’s the hometown player, a local fan favorite, and a charming dirty blond who’s completely off-limits. Team policy. No dating players. Full stop.
