I sent four—no, make that five—unhinged voice memos to Emmitt Buckley. The guy I’ve spent two years trying to avoid. The franchise player who led the team to the Stanley Cup semi-finals last year. The hometown favorite whose easy laugh makes my stomach flip.
A man so completely, professionally, catastrophically off-limits just thinking about him probably violates three different sections of the employee handbook.
My lungs stop working.
I frantically scroll down through the voice memos, my hands shaking harder.
Oh, God.
They definitely sent. I bury my face in a couch cushion and scream.
This is exactly the kind of scandal that gets team staff blacklisted from professional sports. Just last month, a trainer at the Boston Blades got fired for “inappropriate conduct” with a player. And all she did was like his Instagram posts.
I fought three hundred applicants for this job. I have a master’s degree, four certifications, and zero tolerance for career-ending mistakes. The employee handbook has an entire section about “maintaining professional boundaries.” HR drilled it into our heads during orientation and makes us sign a Conflict of Interest form every June before contract renewals.
And now, I’ve unloaded my emotional baggage on the one man whose undivided attention makes me forget basic nutritional facts I’ve known since high school.
My phone is still silent. No response.
Which is worse than if he’d replied immediately. The silence means he’s horrified, confused, or…
Figuring out how to report me to management.
I’ll have to resign. Tonight. I’ll email my two weeks’ notice from this couch and never show my face at the team facility again.
Except I can’t do that. I love my job. And I’m damn good at it. I grab my phone, start typing an apology, then delete it.
What do you even say? “Sorry for the emotional word-vomit. Please pretend it never happened”?
Instead, I turn off my phone and pray by morning, this will all be a wine-soaked nightmare. That somehow, magically, those voice memos will disappear into the digital void as if they werenever sent. As if read receipts are just a cruel myth. As if the internet has a mercy button I’ll miraculously find.
Emmitt
Everymuscleinmybody protests when my phone alarm goes off way too early. I collapsed face-first into bed last night after wrapping up seven games in twelve days, and I could use another few years of sleep. But my ribs choose this moment to remind me exactly how many hits I took in Denver as I wince and roll over.
My shoulders feel like they’ve been used as punching bags, and there’s an ache in my left hip that’ll definitely require a conversation with Whitney, the trainer. But we went five and two, and that’s all that matters. The hard-earned wins put us exactly where we need to be heading into the final stretch of the season, working toward a deep Stanley Cup run.
I scrub a hand down my face and grab my phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen. The usual suspects light up my notifications—team group chat, my agent, and my mom. Shit, I need to get back to her about my nephew’s birthday party next week.
But first, there’s a text from Connor, our newest call-up from the minors. I could tell he was in his head on the flight home last night after that turnover in the second period.
Thanks for the pass in the third. Sorry, I couldn’t bury it.
I practically hear the defeat. The kid’s got skills but zero confidence. It’s been a few years, but I’ve been there. I type back:
Defense made a good play. Keep shooting like that, and you’ll light the lamp soon. Good hustle last night.
I’m about to hit send, but then add:Stay after practice tomorrow, and I’ll show you a tip for that backhand.
The response arrives almost immediately:Definitely, thanks, Cap.
That’s better. Kid needs to know someone’s got his back.
But there’s something else. I blink harder, suddenly wide awake. A message from McKenna Ryan?
McKenna Ryan, the team nutritionist who speaks in precise, measured sentences and won’t hold eye contact for longer than three seconds. The brainiac who somehow makes conversations about hydration protocols sound like classified intelligence briefings and has had me hanging on every word. For two damn years.
The brunette beauty, whose hazel eyes have haunted my dreams since the day she was hired. Not that I’m not the kind of guy someone like her takes seriously.
