Page 7 of Fear of Falling

“I…thanks.”

“It’s nice to officially meet you, Wyatt Boone,” I said, and the relief in him was palpable as his frown lightened and his shoulders relaxed.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

While Wyatt appeared more relaxed, silence quickly fell over us once again as I tried to fight back the urge to stare at him.

“So, you grew up in Toronto?” he finally asked. Turning his cap over in his hands, he turned and looked at me, a slight hesitation in his eyes. Admittedly, if I was in his shoes I would have been the same way.

“I did. Well, on the outskirts of the city until I moved away for university.”

“Oh nice! Where did you go to study?” he asked, his eyebrows raised, and I was surprised to see he seemed genuinely interested.

“Toronto University. I know, pretty standard, but I was offered a scholarship and couldn’t pass up the full ride. How about you?”

“I actually went to York,” he replied.

I gave an exaggerated gasp and clasped my hands to my face. “My rival school! I should have known!” I shook my head, my smile widening.

“Hey, not my fault York is a better school,” he said, playfully tossing his cap in the air before catching it with one hand.

“You didnotjust say that.”

“What? It’s the truth,” he shrugged, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“But which school is the higher ranked in Toronto?” I raised my eyebrows at him. My alma mater prided itself on the prestigious ranking. As Wyatt grunted, I knew I was right. “It’s pretty cool that you got to go to university while playing hockey. That must have been hard.”

“It was exhausting, I won’t lie. Early morning practices, a day of classes and then practice again. My life pretty much revolved around either classrooms or the rink,” he chuckled at the memory. “Even if I was only there for a year.”

“It was obviously worth it though,” I said. “All that dedication got you where you are today.” I found myself wanting to find out about the man beyond all the publicity. There was something intriguing about him that made me want to know more about his life—away from the rink and the cameras.

“Do you ever think about what you would have done, if you didn’t play hockey?” I blurted before I could stop myself. Wyatt was quiet for a moment as my question hung in the air. “Truthfully?” he finally asked.

Nodding, I turned my body to face him, tucking my legs underneath me.

Wyatt let out a long sigh. “I’m not sure, to be honest. My life’s always revolved around hockey, for as long as I can remember. I grew up watching it and I was on the ice before I could even walk. Making it to the League was my dream–I hadn’t allowed the room to have any other real interests. Then I got hurt.” His brow darkened briefly, giving away a glimpse of grief that I was all-too familiar with.

The knowledge that came from knowing you could lose everything you’ve worked so hard for, in a split second. “Things have just been a bit…off, since” he said, and I noticed the look ofsurprise on his face, as though he wasn't used to being so honest with someone, especially a stranger. Getting stuck in an elevator will do that. It’s like confined spaces make you drop your guard.

“I get that. After an injury it’s mainly a mental game.”

“You sound like you have some experience with it,” he replied, and the way he looked at me made me feel like he wanted to see what it was underneath it all. To see what made me tick. It was a look I was unfamiliar with.

“I tore my ACL a few years back,” I confessed, and the memories flashed through my mind before I blinked them away.

Wyatt whistled. “Damn. That’s brutal.” He stretched his right leg out, as though recalling his own ACL injury I knew he’d gone through the year before. Everyone freaked out watching the star player injured and carted off the ice.

While ACL tears can be common among professional athletes, it wasn’t typically common among hockey players. Then again, all it took was to take a hit at just the right angle, and the ligament by the knee goes. It’s painful and can take months to heal, even after surgery and physical therapy.

I remember watching it happen. Wyatt’s injury was splattered all over the news and social media as sport analysts talked about the difficulties with making a comeback from that kind of injury. They asked the question everyone asked themselves. How would the team survive without Wyatt playing?

“It’s a bitch,” I agreed. “It took me a while to trust my leg again.”

“How did you hurt it?” he asked, and unconsciously my hand drifted to my right leg and rubbed at my knee. Sometimes I swore I could still feel a phantom pain.

“Running track.”

“You ran track?”

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