I should delete these messages. Should pretend they never happened. Instead, I open a text thread.
I think you meant to send these to someone else.
Delete. Too dismissive. As if I’m embarrassed for her.
For what it’s worth, he sounds like a complete jerk.
True, but not nearly strong enough.
I stare at the blank message box, cursor blinking as if it’s tapping its foot waiting for me to figure out how to walk this tightrope. Acknowledge the mistake but make it clear where I stand on the whole situation. Give her an out if she wants to pretend this never happened, while also letting her know someone’s in her corner.
Finally,Who’s this Emmitt asshole? Send me his address, and I’ll handle the rest.
I read it three times before hitting send. Direct enough to show I’m genuinely pissed off on her behalf but still gives her room to back away if she wants to.
Then, I set my phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, my heart pounding. The idea of some jackass treating McKenna like disposable garbage has my blood running hot in a way that has nothing to do with hockey.
McKenna Ryan. Two years of professional distance and carefully maintained boundaries. Two years of pretending I don’t notice the way she bites her lip when she’s deep in thought or how her laugh sounds different when she thinks no one’s listening.
And now this. Five drunk voice memos show me exactly who she is when the walls come down.
I’m so screwed.
My phone stays silent. No immediate response. She’s either still asleep or staring at her phone in absolute horror, trying to figure out how to handle this in a way that doesn’t compromise our professional relationship.
But for the first time in weeks, the season-ending pressure feels manageable. Like, maybe, there are more interesting distractions to consider than powerplay percentages and post-game interviews.
Like whether McKenna Ryan will text me back. And what happens if she does?
McKenna
I’velivedinArizonafor two years and still can’t get over how blazing hot the sun is, even in April. It’s not yet nine in the morning, but I’m already two miles into what was supposed to be a casual hike. Instead, my legs are driving me through this mountain preserve path as if I’m being chased by a coyote.
My heart hammers in my chest, and not just from the incline. I’ve been checking my phone obsessively since I woke up at the crack of dawn, dreading Emmitt’s response to my mortifying voice memos. Condiment theft and Nickelback. I actually said that. Out loud. To Emmitt Buckley.
My watch buzzes against my wrist, and I stop dead in my tracks. A roadrunner darts across the trail ahead of me, disappearing into the scrub brush as if it has somewhere important to be. Unlike me, the girl frozen in the middle of a hiking trail, about to find out if I’ve destroyed my entire career.
I glance down, the notification glowing on the small screen. Sure enough, one text from Emmitt Buckley.
I stumble over to a boulder, my legs suddenly unsteady, and tap the screen.
Who’s this Emmitt asshole? Send me his address, and I’ll handle the rest.
I stare at the message, sweat trickling down my spine. Emmitt Buckley just asked for my ex’s address with the kind of deadly serious tone that makes opposing teams think twice about cheap shots. The same man who leads team meetings and gives interviews to ESPN just offered to personally deliver justice for my relationship drama.
A hiker with a walking stick and a curious Jack Russell terrier passes. I turn back to my wrist. Emmitt’s just being loyal. The way captains look out for everyone in their orbit. Except this feels different. Less like team solidarity and more like individual protection. It feels personal.
I swipe my shirtsleeve over the sweat beading on my forehead and debate what to say. Eventually landing on:I’m mortified. And you definitely can’t go around threatening my ex because of a drunk voice memo. Or five. That’s how we both get fired.
His response comes almost immediately:Too late. I’m already planning his educational seminar on how to treat women properly.
Despite the humiliation, the potential career implications, and the fact that I’m texting the most off-limits man in professional hockey, I smile.You’re supposed to be horrified by my unprofessional breakdown, not plotting vigilante justice.
Vigilante justice is the only kind that works with pricks like him. Besides, I’m off-duty—different rules apply.
I chug from my water bottle while sneaking another peek at the message.
Different rules apply. The hell they do. But the idea of Emmitt Buckley operating under “different rules” makes my pulse spike as if I just sprinted up Camelback Mountain. It sounds personal.Dangerous. As if, maybe, I’m not the only one feeling this charge between us I’ve been trying to ignore for two years.
