There. That’s professional. Mature. Appropriate damage control.
So it’s a yes to pizza?
My mouth opens. Then shuts. Whitney would scream that this is insane. She’d cite chapter and verse of the employee handbook and probably stage an intervention involving protein bars and motivational speeches about career goals.
But the team trainer isn’t here at the moment. She’s probably working on Petrov’s shoulder right now while he teaches her Russian swear words.
And I can handle one casual dinner with a colleague. Even one who offers to teach my ex a lesson. I’m a professional. I can keep things appropriate. Even if the thought of being alone with Emmitt makes my stomach feel as if it’s full of butterflies doing cartwheels.
I stare at my watch for a full minute. The rational thing would be to politely decline and pretend this never happened, but nobody has ever offered to defend me like that. So despite every instinct screaming at me to refuse his offer, I can’t.
But I’m just being practical. Strategic, even. Handling the situation now—privately—before it becomes a workplace issue.
What time?I text back.
The response arrives before I can even take a breath.
Seven. I’ll send the address.
Emmitt
McKenna’sperchedontheedge of my couch, in jeans and a soft gray sweater, looking as if she’s ready to bolt. Her hands are folded in her lap as if she’s in a job interview instead of my living room. I can practically see the thoughts running through her head:This is a terrible idea. You should leave. Now.
I’ve never seen her hair down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders instead of the tight ponytail she always wears at work. It makes her look younger. More like the woman in that marathon photo on her desk, unguarded and gorgeous. The urge to hunt down her ex and introduce him to the business end of a body check hits me so hard I have to grip the pizza boxes tighter.
She rubs the small scar on her chin. A tell I’ve noticed in meetings but never understood until tonight. It’s her anchor when she’s uncertain. I need to find a way to put her at ease before she talks herself out of staying.
“You'll be glad to know,” I say, handing her a bottle of water, “this playlist is Nickelback-free.”
That gets me a smile, and her shoulders drop an inch. Maybe two. For the first time since she walked in, she looks more like the woman I watch in team meetings when someone makes a lame joke.
I grab a couple of plates and napkins. “Hope you’re hungry. There’s Margherita, pepperoni, and a loaded veggie that definitely seems like something you’d approve of.”
“Seems like, maybe, you didn’t need a nutrition consultation for thispizza emergency.”
So she’s on to me. I’m not surprised with the brilliant head on her shoulders.
I set the boxes on the coffee table and hand her a plate and napkin. “What can I say? I’ve learned from the best. You’ve turned half the team into guys who actually read ingredient labels.”
She tries to hide the pleased smile that graces her gorgeous lips by opening the Margherita box and selecting a slice, but I catch sight of it, and make a mental note to compliment her more, if that’s the reward. She settles back against the couch cushions. “Smells good. I’ve never heard of Rico’s.”
“It’s over on Hayden, south of Shea.” I take the other end of the couch and grab a slice of pepperoni, trying not to notice how she closes her eyes and makes a little hum of appreciation when she takes the first bite of her pizza. Especially when we’re six games from the post-season, already locked into the playoffs, and I should be studying tape, not wondering what else I can do to get McKenna to make that sound.
“So,” I say, shifting in my seat to ease the pressure in my crotch, “want to tell me about this ex?”
Her expression hardens, but not defensively. It’s more like she’s remembering why she was pissed off in the first place.
“Emmitt,” she scowls. “His name is Emmitt, too.”
“Is that how—”
“I messaged the wrong person? Yeah.” She winces. “My phone syncs personal and work contacts, so you were both right there, and I thought I clicked on him, but…”
“You got me instead.” I can’t help but grin.
“Yup,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile now. “When I got home last night, my stuff from his place was dumped on my front porch in a torn garbage bag. Two years’ worth of things, just sitting there like trash.”
The image of McKenna coming home exhausted after the grueling road trip to find that on the porch makes my blood run hot.
