Page 65 of Fear of Falling

It was rectangular in shape, with a massive carpet displaying the Knights logo in the center of the room. The player’s lockers or cubbies lined both sides, benches right in front. The lockers were made of a gorgeous dark oak, providing each player with adequate space to change into their uniforms. At the far back of the room, I could see what appeared to be two large offices that I assumed were for the coaches.

Whoever looked after the locker room did a great job—there was no way a team of men were so neat and tidy. All the uniforms were clean and neatly hung in their rightful place, the pucks in a container, and the player’s hockey sticks lined the wall in a rack. I was surprised it smelled nice, too. I’d expected an overwhelming smell of body odor and dampness, so I was pleasantly surprised at how nice and fresh the place smelled.

Yep. Whoever looks after this place deserves a pay rise.

Wyatt lingered near the door as I took it all in. I felt his eyes on me, following me around the room. As I caught sight of his jersey number above a cubby, I moved closer, running my fingers across the back of his jersey. For the first time it dawned on me that I stood in the locker room of a professional hockey team.

This doesn’t happen to normal people.

Feeling a little overwhelmed, I needed to break the silence, and I turned around to face Wyatt. “So, what really goes on in here? Do you guys sit around and braid each other's hair?”

“And talk about boys,” Wyatt said in a high-pitched voice.

“I think you’ve done that voice a few times,” I teased.

“That’s my real voice. Didn’t you know?”

“It suits you.”

“I think so too,” Wyatt said, his voice dropping back to normal as he walked towards me. I felt my breath catch in my throat as he stopped so close we were almost touching. Then, with a cheeky grin, he reached behind me and grabbed a pair of white ice skates and handed them to me. “Here you go.”

I stared at the pretty skates, unable to wipe the smile off my face, excited—and intimidated by the thought of hitting the ice with Wyatt. Little did he know, I had no idea how to skate.

“I had Bryton drop off Mila’s skates for you to use. They may be a bit small but it’s better to have a snug skate than a loose one,” he said, as he moved around the room, collecting two hockey sticks and a handful of pucks. I held my skates by their laces, my nerves growing as I watched Wyatt collect his own skates from his cubby.

“Ready?” he asked, and from the mischievous grin on his face, I could tell he found my nerves amusing.

I must look like a total fish out of water standing here.

With a jerk of his head, the two of us made our way out of the locker room and back down the hallway, skates in hand. Whenwe turned a corner, I was surprised to find that carpet replaced the concrete floor.

“It's easier for our skates to grip the carpet,” Wyatt explained. “You’d be surprised how often we eat shit on the concrete.”

Just picturing huge hockey players hobbling in their skates and falling made me laugh under my breath. “Are you sure we’re okay to be here?” I asked after a moment. The last thing I wanted was to get Wyatt in trouble.

“Afraid of getting caught lil rebel?”

“Nope.”

It was like he had some kind of innate knowledge that calling me that was enough to get my competitive side going. In the past, while Tasha was the one who came up with the crazy ideas, all it took was a little goading to get me to go along with— I couldn’t stand to lose.

Now was no different.

To prove my eagerness, I tried to push open the huge set of double doors that lead to the rink with my shoulder. Tried being the operative word. The doors must have weighed a ton, and with my hands full, seemingly impossible to open.

Chuckling, Wyatt reached over my head and pushed, the door swinging open with ease. I glared at the door for betraying me. In an attempt to maintain my dignity, I squared my shoulders and stepped through the doors.

Only to stop in my tracks.

The ice rink stretched out before me, the bright, white, ice glistening beneath the stadium lights. It looked freshly Zamboni-d.

With wide eyes I stepped forward, ignoring the chill in the air. The entire arena was empty and appeared so much larger with row upon row of empty seats.

I wonder if I shouted something, if it would echo through the whole place?

Wyatt gently nudged me, motioning towards the player’s bench. “Watch your step,” he murmured softly.

Stepping into the players box, I was struck by its size. From the stands—and the television—it appeared small, but the reality was it could easily fit ten of me standing shoulder to shoulder.

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