“Do you? Because you don’t look like someone who knows how bad this is. You look like someone who’s trying not to smile while talking about kissing the team captain.”
She’s right. Even now, thinking about the way Emmitt’s huge hand felt cupping my face, the way he kissed me as if I were the answer to a question he’d been asking for years, makes my stomach flutter in ways that are completely inappropriate for someone having a career crisis.
“It was just… God, Whitney, it was perfect. And terrifying. And completely insane.” I bounce harder on the exercise ball. “But it was so good I temporarily forgot about things like employment contracts and professional conduct policies and the fact that this could destroy everything I’ve worked for.”
She slides off the treatment table and starts pacing. “What happened after this amazing kiss?”
“I panicked. Told him it couldn’t happen again and basically ran out of there like the building was on fire.”
“Okay, good. You ended it there,” she says, moving into disaster management mode. “Emmitt’s smart. He knows the stakes. He’ll keep his distance now, and you can pretend this never happened.”
I nod, her observation making complete sense. Maybe, I’m overthinking this. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sure—”
“McKenna?”
Whitney and I both freeze as if we’ve been caught stealing state secrets.
It’s Sarah from the front desk, who’s just come in and sounds confused. “Oh, I’m glad I found you. Sorry to interrupt, but a package for you just got delivered to the front desk, which is…weird? I mean, you never have personal stuff sent here.”
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. Sarah’s right. I don’t order things to work. Ever. I keep my personaland professional lives in completely separate, clearly labeled containers, specifically to avoid situations like this.
Whitney shoots me a questioning look that screams,What did you do?
Sarah comes in, and sure enough, the package she hands over is addressed to me. Just me personally, with no team name in sight. I accept it, my hands trembling as if it’s their default setting now.
The second she’s gone, Whitney’s at my side like a detective examining evidence. “What is it? Who’s it from?”
No return address. No company name. But somehow, deep in my gut where bad decisions are born, I already know.
“Open it,” Whitney urges. Her voice has that dangerous edge of someone who’s about to witness a train wreck.
I rip off the tape and open the flaps. Inside is a book,The Gardner Heist: The True Story of the World’s Largest Unsolved Art Theft. But that’s not all. Nestled next to the book is a small bottle of hot sauce from a popular local Mexican restaurant, with its own little note tied around the neck with string:For your eggs.
My lungs stop working. He remembered. Not just the true crime conversation, but my ridiculous rant about hoping my ex’s new girlfriend would suggest hot sauce for his eggs and remind him of me.
“Holy shit,” Whitney breathes, reading over my shoulder. “McKenna. He sent you a book and hot sauce. To work. Where anyone could see.” She picks up the hot sauce bottle, examining it like evidence. “This isn’t just thoughtful; he’s staking his claim.”
“Staking his claim would be sending me his jersey. This is just…a thoughtful gesture. From a colleague. Who listened when I talked. Plus, his name’s not anywhere on here.”
She looks skeptical. “What the hell are you going to do?”
And that’s the million-dollar question. Because staring at this box, I feel my carefully constructed professional walls crumbling as if they’re made of graham crackers and wishful thinking.
“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “If this gets out, we’re both screwed. He’s not just any player, He’s the face of the franchise. The guy who led them to the Stanley Cup semi-finals last year. And I’m—”
“Fired.”
My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
The familiar sound of skates with guards on the blades echoes from the hallway, followed by a voice calling out, “Whitney? You there? My shoulder, it hurts.”
It’s Petrov, which means practice is still going on, but he needs ice or tape or whatever magical healing Whitney provides. Still, any player entering this space, while I’m holding evidence of my inappropriate relationship, feels like a potential disaster.
“Coming!” Whitney calls back then turns to me with an urgent look.
I jump up, clutching the box to my chest. “I have to go. I can’t— I need to think.”
“McKenna—”
