Page 5 of Fear of Falling

“Oh god, we’re stuck.”

I could hear the panic in her voice and felt the strange urge to try to make her feel better. “It’s okay. Someone will have been notified when the elevator stopped. They’ll send someone to come get us,” I said, trying to sound comforting but I wasn’t sure I was helping. Her wide-eyed stare showed she wanted to believe me, but we both knew there was a chance no one was coming.

Of course, my luck was getting shittier and shittier. First the game, and now a broken-down elevator.

Perfect.

Next to me the girl held her phone up, letting out the smallest of groans. The sound sent a strange shiver up my spine.

“No service,” she mumbled.

I forced myself to look away from her, not wanting to be caught staring. From the corner of my eye, I watched her sit down on the floor, putting her bags beside her. Following her lead, I let my bag drop to the floor before following it—not an easy feat in someone of my build. With a sigh, I rubbed a hand across my face. I felt exhausted and annoyed, and I longed for the comfort and privacy of my apartment.

Instead, I had nothing to distract me from the night’s game as it played on a loop in my head. Replaying all the missed shots and opportunities. The last six games have been nothing butdisappointing, for everyone. I knew it took a team to win a game, not just one person, but it seemed like our entire team had fallen to the wayside—and I felt responsible.

Everything rested on my shoulders. I was under so much pressure to return to beingTheWyatt Boone. Get the team back on track. Be the best Captain. It’s a lot.

And now I’m stuck in a broken elevator. Maybe I should have done the damn post-game interviews. Could have avoided this whole fiasco.

The silence in the elevator expanded, urging me to say something, but I just didn’t want to risk her recognizing me. I wasn’t being arrogant in the assumption. Girls in Toronto loved hockey players. Puck Bunnies everyone called them. There are literally groups of girls that hang outside the arena just to see if they can hook up with a player. They approach us when we are out celebrating, or outside the arena. I’d be lying if I said I hated the attention. Hell, back in the day after a game I’d take one of those girls home without a second thought.

But not anymore.

“I’m Josie,” she said suddenly, her honey-like voice instantly drawing me out of my thoughts.

I peered at her from under my baseball cap. The light above us was dingy but I could still make out her features. Cute freckles dotted her cheeks, lips that looked full and kissable, her eyes kind, albeit filled with anxiety.

Her name echoed in my head.Josie.I likedit.

“Wyatt,” I finally managed to say. I was happy to withhold my last name—it was safer that way. I’ve been around plenty of women whose demeanor changed once they knew who I was. Instantly they start batting their eyelashes and flirting. Although after the way I’ve played lately, perhaps not so much.

“Nice to meet you,” Josie replied with a soft, easy, smile that cemented the fact that I didn’t want her to know who I was.Just once I wanted to be Wyatt. The person I was before it all changed. NotWyatt Boone—star hockey player.

Glancing away from her, I reached for my bag. I stashed my phone in there earlier, not wanting to deal with the texts/calls I was bound to get after the game—especially after bailing on the press. As I glanced at the screen, I noted the number of missed texts and calls from my family and two best friends before shoving it back. It wasn’t like I could respond with no service anyways.

I settled back against the elevator wall, resigned that we were going to be in here awhile. Beside me Josie was fiddling with something, a camera.

“Are you a photographer?” I found myself asking, curious.

“I am.” Her hands played with the strap of the camera as she spoke.

“What kind of pictures do you take?”

“I work for a magazine calledFusion Weekly. I take pictures of everything. One day I’ll be photographing the food at a local restaurant and the next I’ll be at some concert,” she explained. “My boss lets me have creative control most of the time which is a rarity,” Josie rambled. “Sorry I tend to talk incessantly until someone tells me to stop.” She ducked her head, cheeks turning pink.

I felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth again. I thought she sounded cute when she rambled. “No, don’t be sorry. If you are passionate about something you should talk about it.” I was a firm believer of chasing after your dreams. For as long as I could remember, all I’d wanted to do was play hockey. I’d dreamt of making it to the big leagues, of playing on the world stage while fans cheered my name.

“I do love my job, even on bad days. Not everyone can say that,” she said softly.

I silently agreed with her. It’s not everyday someone gets to do something they love.

“Was today a bad day?” I couldn’t help but ask, the frown on her face from earlier coming to mind.

“I mean, I’ve had worse days. My boss asked me to do a last-minute photoshoot which resulted in me getting hit on by a bunch of 15–18-year-olds.”

I tried not to laugh, I really did, but the way she wrinkled her nose, I couldn’t help it. “Seriously?” My shoulders shook as I laughed.

“Oh yeah. One kid that couldn’t have been older than fourteen asked me if I was into football players, while another one asked me to go grab something to eat with him.”

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