“That’s…” Linda pauses, tilting her head. “Actually, a remarkably accurate summary, yes.”
“Great. No pressure.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. This feels like being down a goal with thirty seconds left and your best player in the penalty box.
“For what it’s worth,” Linda says, her voice gentler now, “McKenna’s got the talent and drive to succeed at anything she sets her mind to. We’ve all seen the positive way her work has impacted the team. How she handles Derek’s attitude, manages Petrov’s dietary restrictions, and somehow, convinces half the team to actually read nutrition labels.”
Pride balloons in my chest. “The woman could run a Fortune 500 company if she wanted to. But,” I add, doubt creeping in, “will she want to take the risk?”
“That, my hockey-playing friend, is the million-dollar question.” Linda closes the folder and tucks it back into her drawer. “Though, I will say, she seemed eager to learn of a possible option when we met yesterday.”
I stare at her. “You told her about this—”
She shakes her head. “I told her I’d look into something and some space between the two of you was advised right now.”
So that’s why she wasn’t answering my messages. Why she wasn’t home last night. She knew I couldn’t stay away, no matterwhat she asked. I stand, my legs unsteady. The weight of what I need to do—of what I’ll ask McKenna to do—settles in my gut.
“I’ll be speaking with her again today,” Linda continues. “To share what I’ve just told you. But remember, she’s still on staff and will be through the rest of the regular season. Her contract includes a built-in condition for extension through the post-season, so the earliest anything could officially change is after the playoffs.”
I swallow hard. That’s so long.
“Linda?” I pause at the door, my hand on the handle. “Thank you. For researching this, for keeping it quiet, for…everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when McKenna’s signature is on a consulting contract and you two are free to make those heart eyes at each other during team meetings without giving me more gray hair.”
Despite everything, that gets a laugh out of me. “Deal.”
“Oh, and Emmitt?” Her voice stops me as I twist the handle. “For the record, McKenna’s lucky to have someone willing to fight for her like you are. But remember, sometimes, the best thing you can do is trust people to make their own choices.”
The words follow me into the hallway where the facility is alive with the sounds of a normal day. Equipment carts rolling, conversations echoing from the training rooms, the distant hum of machinery. But nothing about today feels normal. Because I’m going to ask McKenna Ryan to bet her entire career on us and then give her the space to walk away. And I have no idea if she’ll think I’m worth the risk.
McKenna
Iforcemyselftobreezethrough the team facility as if nothing’s changed. As if my entire world wasn’t flipped upside down two hours ago when Linda offered me a lifeline I never saw coming.
Independent contractor. My own sports nutrition consulting business. The freedom to work with multiple teams, build my own protocols, maybe even write and publish a book. An option I never dreamed was possible, now may be the solution to all of my problems.
The second Linda described it, I knew. Despite the risks, despite what I’d give up—the security, the benefits, the guaranteed paycheck—I wanted it. Not just because it could solve the issue with Emmitt, but because it’s everything I’ve been too afraid to reach for. The chance to build something entirely mine. Using my skills and expertise.
I nod to Jorge in the hallway, forcing a smile. The cart of pre-practice fuel options, including an assortment of bananas,granola bars, and electrolyte gummies along with beverages of all manner, feels heavier than usual as I push it toward the locker room. Maybe, because all I can think about is Linda’s warning as I left her office. One whiff of something amiss between Emmitt and me and this option disappears entirely.
My fingers find the small scar on my chin, rubbing it absently. The statistical probability of landing this job was 0.32%. Now, I’m considering walking away from it voluntarily. But rather than making my chest tight, the choice feels light, right.
“McKenna?”
I look up to find Assistant Coach Miller approaching, his expression creased with concern. My stomach immediately drops. Does he know? Has someone said something?
“Coach Miller.” I straighten my shoulders, channeling every ounce of professionalism I possess. “How can I help you?”
“It’s about Buckley.” My pulse spikes as he glances around, then lowers his voice. “His focus has been off the last few games. We’ve got the Bearcats tomorrow night, and I need to get to the bottom of what’s throwing him.”
Emmitt’s performance issues aren’t from dehydration or poor fueling—at least, not entirely. But I can’t assure the coach that Emmitt will be fine, even after I get a chance to talk to him.
“Of course,” I manage instead, grateful my voice sounds steady. “I can do a comprehensive assessment—urine sample for hydration and metabolic markers, full review of his current macronutrient ratios and meal timing, plus an evaluation of his sleep and recovery nutrition protocols. That should give us a complete picture of any systemic issues affecting performance.”
Miller nods, relief evident in his expression. “Sounds good. Do whatever you need to do.”
I will because this is my job, although my heart pounds at the thought of being alone with Emmitt. Especially, with even more on the line than before. “Consider it done.”
“Perfect. Whatever it takes to get our captain back on track.” Miller’s jaw tightens. “We can’t afford for him to be off his game, right now. He’s already here this morning, actually—been in the weight room since eight. Coming in a little early isn’t unusual, but two hours before practice is scheduled isn’t like him.”
