Thenextday,thesecond the team hits the ice for practice, I’m sneaking through the facility as if I’m conducting some sort of covert operation. Which, given that I’m about to confess potentially job-ending behavior to my work bestie, isn’t far from the truth.
My nervous system and judgment have apparently decided to betray me. My hands shake, my pulse seems to be doing an interpretive dance, and I’m pretty sure I’ve developed a nervous tick in my left eye.
I bypass the main hallways where someone might spot me looking like I’m fleeing a crime scene, duck through the equipment room with a fleeting wave at Tommy, and slip into the athletic training area. Whitney is setting up for the post-practice sessions. She’s organizing resistance bands with the kind of methodical precision that makes me think she missed her calling as a surgeon.
She looks up and immediately frowns. “What the hell is wrong?”
“Whitney.” I grab her arm with what I’m sure is an entirely normal amount of desperation. “I need to tell you something, and you’re going to think I’ve completely lost my mind. Which, statistically speaking, might be accurate.”
She gives me her full attention, which somehow makes this worse. “Spill.”
I glance around to make sure we’re alone then drag her to the corner farthest from the wide opening to the hallway. What I’m about to confess requires maximum privacy and possibly witness protection.
“I got home on Tuesday, and my stuff from Emmitt’s place was dumped on my porch. A couple of glasses of wine later, I left him a few ranting voice memos—”
“A few?”
“Five. Telling him precisely what I thought about our relationship and his rebound girlfriend and his condiment theft habits.”
She grins. “Finally, you tell the bastard off.”
“Except I didn’t tell him off.” I stop pacing and face her, bracing for impact. “I accidentally sent the memos to Emmitt Buckley.”
A resistance band slips from Whitney’s hands and hits the floor with a soft thud. “What?”
“You know how our phones sync the team contact list?”
“Yeah, but—”
“They were right there together, and apparently, wine makes me functionally illiterate because I clicked the wrong name.” I’m gesturing wildly now, which is never a good sign.
Whitney hops onto one of the treatment tables. “Please tell me you’re not here right now, this panicked, because he didn’t ignore them.”
“Ignore them?” I scoff. “He asked who this ‘Emmitt asshole’ is and wanted his address. Then he said different rules apply when he’s off duty, and somehow, that led to an invitation to come over for pizza and I—”
“Please tell me you didn’t go.”
I give her a look that admits the depths of my poor decision making.
“Oh my God, you went.” She’s staring at me as if I’ve announced my intention to quit my job and become a circus performer. “McKenna, what were you thinking?”
I throw my hands up. “I thought it would be damage control. That I could apologize in person and assure him I didn’t need Emmitt ‘taken care of.’”
“But that’s not what happened, is it?”
My face scrunches up. “We talked for three hours and…” And this is where I admit my second catastrophic mistake of the week. “When I was leaving…he kissed me.”
The silence stretches so long I’m pretty sure Whitney’s stopped breathing. When I finally look up, she’s staring at me with the kind of horror usually reserved for compound fractures.
“He what?”
“Well, technically, we kissed each other. I mean, he started it, but I definitely participated. Enthusiastically.” I bury my face in my hands. “Oh God, I kissed Emmitt Buckley. In his kitchen. For like…a really long time.”
My cortisol levels must be through the roof. I can practically feel my blood sugar crashing from the stress, which explains why my hands won’t stop shaking and my brain feels like it’s running on fumes.
“Holy shit, McKenna.” Whitney’s voice is barely a whisper. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”
“I know!”
