3. Wyatt

3

WYATT

45 minutes earlier …

I stormed through the locker room and threw my helmet into my cubby stall. With gritted teeth I ripped at my gear, eager to be rid of it. My team-mates shuffled in behind me, but I paid them no attention. I could practically feel the disappointment coming off them in waves as they headed for their own locker stalls. We'd lost. Again. The sixth straight loss in a row. Each against teams we had annihilated before, which just added insult to injury.

I could feel eyes on me, but I refused to turn around as I quickly took off my gear and shoved it into my cubby. I was pissed off. Beyond pissed off. It was my fault that we didn't win. There were multiple shots I should have easily made, yet every shot went wide. It was like my head and body weren't in sync. One by one, I could feel every single gaze of my teammates looking to me for answers. And fuck, I had none to give them.

Strands of sweaty hair hung in my eyes as I sat on the bench, leaning down to unlace my skates. I needed to get out, to leave this damn locker room and away from everyone. Away from the accusation in their stares.

"B?"

I ignored the nickname everyone on the team called me, shoving my skates into my cubby. Management wouldn't be thrilled with the mess I'd left it in, but I didn't have it in me to feel anything other than disappointment and anger.

I was in the middle of stripping off my sweaty under shirt when I felt a presence behind me. I knew who it was. Only my best friend would dare approach me then.

"Fuck off Trevor," I grunted, grabbing a clean t-shirt and pulling it over my head. I slid on a pair of sweatpants before grabbing my regular shoes. I should have been putting my suit on, ready for the post-game press, but that was the last thing I wanted to do.

"It wasn't your fault, Wyatt," Trevor tried again, but I just shook my head.

"Stop."

"Come on, dude. Don't be like that."

I knew I was being a dick, but I couldn't help it. With the mood I was in, I knew it was in everyone's best interests that I left before I said something I'd regret. Especially to the one friend that had been with me through thick and thin.

Once I had my shoes on, I stood up and grabbed my bag, pulling my baseball cap over my damp hair. I looked over at Trevor—the stubborn bastard still stood there. "I'll see you later."

With that I stalked towards the door. Without a word to anyone else I slipped out of the locker room and headed for the back door of the stadium, away from the reporters I knew would be waiting at the main entrance. After tonight, they'd be like vultures wanting answers on why the Toronto Knights, the most unbeatable team for the last few years, had lost yet another game.

Why their star player, Wyatt Boone, couldn't make a single shot.

Cursing under my breath I ducked my head lower and shouldered open the door. I took a quick glance around, ensuring the coast was clear before I strode across the parking lot, pressing the button on my key to unlock my car. I tossed my bag in the backseat before quickly sliding in behind the wheel.

All I wanted to do right now was go home and drown my disappointment in alcohol. The idea of getting black out drunk sounded extremely enticing. Yet, the last thing I wanted was to go out and be recognized by the public. Not after they saw the game tonight. I usually didn't mind going out after a game, celebrating with my boys or even slightly wallowing in a loss, but tonight wasn't the night for it. I'd be nothing more than a black cloud imposing on everyone's night.

I sent a quick wave to the security guard by the gate as I drove through, feeling a sense of relief to leave the stadium in my rearview mirror. However, I'd only made it a few blocks before I found myself stuck in game day traffic. Normally I would be in the locker room or doing interviews while the fans left, and by the time I left, the worst of the traffic had dissipated.

Leaning my head back, I pounded the steering wheel in my frustration, knowing I'd be stuck in the traffic for ages. My mood darkened further as my evening of drinking alone in my apartment ebbed further away.

Over thirty minutes later, the traffic eased as I neared home, clutching the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. As soon as I pulled into my apartment parking lot, I wasted no time in grabbing my hockey bag and making my way through the private entrance I used daily.

Up ahead the elevator doors were slowly closing, and not wanting to have to wait for its return, I ran towards it. At the last second, I dangerously shoved my hand between the doors, forcing them open. I briefly noticed someone else was already in there, but I kept my head down, hiding my face as best I could beneath my cap. I knew if I looked up, I would likely be recognized, and that was not what I needed right now. I didn't trust what I'd say if someone asked me about the game tonight.

Turning my back on them, I pressed the button for my floor, and I leaned against the wall, fighting the urge to tap my foot as I waited for the elevator to go up. As it started to move, I dared a peek towards the other passenger. My eyes took in the long, slender legs, clad in the tightest pair of jeans I'd ever seen. I allowed my gaze to travel further up until I saw the face those legs belonged to.

She stared down at the phone in her hands, her light brown hair falling around her face. From here I could make out a slight frown, and the downward turn of her lips. For some reason I wanted to know why. I could practically see the tension in her shoulders as she hunched forward. There was something about her expression that made me think her day had been just as shitty as mine.

Any further thoughts were paused as the elevator suddenly lurched. Gripping the railing, I held my ground as we came to a screeching halt. What the…

"What the fuck?"

It took a second for me to realize the words were not my own. No, they came from the stranger next to me. My head whipped over to hers, our eyes meeting for the first time. I was struck by a pair of gorgeous brown eyes, widening as she realized what she'd just said.

A slight blush appeared on her cheeks, and despite myself, I felt the corners of my mouth twitch. She looked away but I couldn't help but stare at the side of her profile. Even with the red cheeks she was cute. No, not cute…more like beautiful. As soon as the word entered my thoughts, I shoved it aside.

Now's not the time, Wyatt.

"Are we stuck?" she asked, her voice like honey—though she sounded a little freaked out. I ignored the way her words washed over me, focusing instead on pressing the floor buttons on the panel. When that proved useless, I pressed the emergency button. When nothing happened, my stomach dropped in realization.

"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 but disappointing, 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 being The Wyatt 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 liked it .

"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. Not Wyatt 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 called Fusion 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."

"Wow, some pretty confident kids."

"Clearly," she laughed, the sound soothing to my ears. Her laugh was nothing like high squeaky giggles I was used to from women. It was husky—and incredibly sexy.

"So, how about you?" she asked, snapping me to attention. "How was your day? Get hit on by any underage kids?"

"Can't say that I did," I shook my head, still grinning.

Do I tell her who I am, or not?

Who knows how long we'd be stuck together in the enclosed space of the elevator. I knew I couldn't hide my face the whole time—not without coming across as a complete weirdo.

Scratching at my jaw, I sighed.

Best get it over with.

For a moment, I felt self-conscious as I reached up and took off my baseball cap. I quickly ran my fingers through my hair before I turned to face her.

I stayed silent, shoulders tense, as Josie got her first proper look at me. I tried not to fidget as I watched her eyes travel over my face, her lips parting slightly. It was strange—while I braced myself for the inevitable gasp and squeal of ‘oh my gosh you're Wyatt Boone!' , I found myself hoping she would be different. It seemed that every woman I met was either a puck bunny, or a hockey expert, or just excited to see me in person instead of on city billboards or magazine covers. Just once, I wanted to be seen.

So, I silently counted down as I waited for her reaction.