Not that he dates. Ever. Although, I can’t help but wonder the kind of woman he’d go for if he did.
And yet, he asks about my weekend as if he genuinely wants to know, lingers after our meetings with follow-up questions about recovery nutrition as if my answers actually matter, and he makes me feel like the smartest person in the building.
I don’t get that feeling very often. Especially not from my ex, who I’m half certain only dated me because of my connection to the team.
Still, this moment isn’t about fantasy. It’s about closure. Catharsis. Possibly revenge. A voice memo or two. Because I’m fortified by the wine and done being polite.
I click Emmitt’s name, hit the button to record, and go for it. What do I have to lose?
“You know what, Emmitt? I’ve been thinking about ourrelationship, and I realized something.”
Sip. Deep breath as I channel my fury.
“You never actually wanted me. You wanted a social-media-ready version of me. A polished, enthusiastic-but-not-too-passionate McKenna who looked good on paper but wouldn’t be too demanding in real life.”
I send it. Then, start the next one.
“You didn’t want a woman with real opinions and actual goals and weird snack habits. You wanted someone who would blend herself into your life. A girlfriend-shaped accessory. A woman who matches your wanna-be athletic aesthetic and sure as hell doesn’t talk too loud.”
Send. I jump up and start pacing.
“But hey—congrats on the upgrade. I hope yournew personprioritizes you. I hope she makes your ego breakfast in bed and suggests hot sauce for your eggs so that it reminds you of me. And I hope she never, ever achieves anything that doesn’t include you. Because, hey, from the picture it sure seems that after twenty-four days she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”
Send. Feels good. One more. I can’t help myself.
“Oh, and stealing my garlic parmesan sauce? That was petty, even for you. You don’t steal a woman’s condiments. That’s breakup 101.”
Send.
I lied. But last one this time. Really.
“Also, I faked it that time. You know the one. On the floor. With the playlist you swore was ‘romantic’ but included Nickelback. I wish I could somehow erase that entire train wreck of a night from my mind.”
I send it off, letting it fly into the digital void. Then I toss aside my phone and flop back onto the couch, emotionally lighter and ready to drown in tangy orange sauce.
The food arrives. I tip too much and eat too fast and let the fortune cookie replace the ache in my chest. For the first time in weeks, I feel vindicated. Empowered. As if I finally said everything I needed to say.
I should go to bed. Instead, I start scrolling again.
Twenty minutes pass. No response. Which is typical Emmitt behavior, honestly. He’s probably too busy with hispersonto deal with his ex-girlfriend’s wine-fueled breakdown.
It doesn’t matter. This was about closure, not conversation. I said my piece, and now I can move on with my—
Wait.
My blood turns to ice.
My gaze lands on the top of the message thread, my hands suddenly shaking.
The name doesn’t say Emmitt Wilson.
It says Emmitt Buckley.
The contact photo stares back at me. Messy dark blond hair, icy blue eyes, that grin that derails my focus during team meetings.
I sent my post-breakup rant to the team captain.
My heart beats so loud I’m one thousand percent sure my neighbors hear it pounding through our paper-thin walls.
