“Nothing. You just keep surprising me.”
“How?”
“True crime? Really?”
Her cheeks go pink again. “It’s my guilty pleasure. I know it’s weird, but there’s something about the puzzle of it, you know? Fitting the pieces together.”
“It’s not weird. It’s fascinating.” McKenna Ryan, who I’ve watched give presentations on nutrient timing like she’s briefing the military, spends her free time watching stories about murder. Interesting.
“I just finished this series about art forgery that was insane.” She stops herself, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I know it’s not exactly dinner conversation.”
“Are you kidding? I’m into biographies and memoirs. Not exactly a riveting dinner conversation starter, either.”
It’s her turn to look surprised. She glances over at my bookshelf, really looking at it for the first time. “Are those ones you’ve read?”
I follow her gaze to the collection that takes up most of one wall. “I know, not what you’d expect from a guy who gets paid to hit a puck into a net.”
She stands and walks over to the shelves, running her finger along the spines. “Jordan, Ali, Serena Williams…” She tugs one out a little. “Is this about the 1980 Olympic hockey team?”
“One of my favorites. The mental game those guys had to play, going up against the Soviets…”
“The pressure must have been insane.” She pulls out a biography of John McCain, flipping to the back cover. “This is fascinating. I had no idea you were into this stuff.”
“Most people don’t.”
She turns back to me, and there’s something different in her expression now. As if she’s seeing me instead of just a player she’s trying to maximize nutrition for. As if I’m not the two-hundred pound captain of the Phoenix Freeze right now. “You’re full of surprises, Emmitt Buckley.”
The way she says my name tightens my chest. Like maybe I’m the type of man she can take seriously. This morning, I knew I was in trouble the second she texted back ‘what time’, but now? I’m a complete goner.
“You’re one to talk, McKenna Ryan, lover of true crime and guys who read nutrition labels.”
“Not all guys who do that,” she says, arching a brow. “Although, it doesn’t hurt.”
“You really love your job, huh?”
“Except for putting up with players like Derek? Yeah, I do. Is it that obvious?”
“From the first day you started with the team.”
The passion I saw in her that summer two years ago, and the dedication in her voice when she talks about her work now, hits me like a right hook. I know what could happen if whatever this is between us goes anywhere. I’ve seen how the organization handles “inappropriate relationships” between staff and players.
Last month, Martinez got benched for missing curfew because of some girl. And he’s not the captain. Not a franchise player Coach depends on, with reporters watching his every move, always sniffing around for a story.
McKenna could lose everything. Her career, her reputation, her future in professional sports. And for what? Because I can’t stop thinking about crawling across this couch right now and pressing her into it while I kiss her senseless? About doing whatever it takes to make her happy? To make her mine?
I wonder if she’s thinking along the same lines, because her smile fades as she studies my face. “What about you? I mean, I know you love hockey; that’s obvious. And biographies and memoirs, now, too. But…you don’t date. Like, ever.”
So she does feel this charge between us that’s simmered beneath the surface until it was set into motion by those voice memos. When she accidentally let her guard down andunknowingly invited me in. She’s watching me carefully, as if trying to gauge whether she’s crossed a line.
“It’s complicated,” I say finally, heaving a sigh. Not ready to admit she’s one of the reasons I haven’t been seen with a woman in years. “More pizza?”
She returns to the couch but drops the subject. I’m grateful because the truth is messy. The pressure, the puck bunnies, the gold-diggers, the way I compare every woman to her—and they always come up short.
But especially because McKenna’s role with the team is a double-edged sword. It ensures she’s always there, always around. Even on road trips, I get to see her daily. Get to enjoy the pleasure of watching her work, seeing her easy-going manner as she handles even the most resistant guys on the team. But it also means she’s off-limits. I can look but not touch. Especially because I’m the team’s captain. Whether or not I like it, I’m a role model, and I take that responsibility seriously.
Which is why I’m cursing myself for inviting her over. For trying to fool myself into thinking I could get to know her better without falling harder than I already have. That I was strong enough to resist crossing the line when she’s here, in my house, only inches away.
But I’m not ready to break the spell of this evening.
