Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Nolan

I pulled into the Dalton Building's underground parking garage in downtown San Diego, my mood as bright as the morning sunshine I'd left outside. Today was all about surprises: first, ironing out details for Mr. Dalton's vow renewal, then playing cupid for Jing and Tyson at Lucha Libre Taco Shop over lunch.

As I cruised down the rows of gleaming luxury cars looking for an open parking spot, I couldn't help but grin when I spotted Zena's dinged-up blue Chevy Malibu. I loved how down-to-earth she was for someone who came from a billionaire family. I parked in the open spot next to her and killed the engine, looking forward to seeing her for what I was sure would be a better culinary experience than the one we experienced last night with Mom.

Stepping out of my car, I made my way upstairs to the lobby, strolling past the glass sculptures and indoor palms toward the elevators as my Skechers squeaked on the polished marble floor. As the elevator arrived with a cheerful ding, I stepped in, pressing the button for the top floor.

As the elevator doors began to close, an arm shot through the gap. My heart sank as Mitch's scowling face came into view.

"This is like a recurring nightmare," he muttered, stepping inside next to me. His eyes widened as he noticed the illuminated top floor button. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I was here before you, so don't blame this on me," I said, trying to keep my tone light. "And shouldn't you be at practice?"

Mitch rolled his eyes. "Not that you need to know my schedule, but practice isn't for another hour. I'm here because there's a problem with the direct deposit of my first paycheck."

I nodded, but couldn't resist saying, "Oh? I assumed they'd send a fleet of armored trucks to your house and dump a mountain of gold coins on your front lawn."

Mitch glared. "You know what? Maybe it's best if we don't talk."

"Fair enough," I agreed, miming zipping my lips again.

More than happy to mentally escape this metal box of awkwardness, I focused on the floor numbers ticking by.

5, 6, 7, 8 …

Suddenly, a loud clunk echoed through the elevator, and we jerked to a stop. The light inside suddenly grew dim.

Mitch's head whipped in my direction, his face in complete horror. "What the hell did you do?"

I raised my hands defensively. "Nothing! I was standing here, like you."

He lunged for the control panel, jabbing the top floor button repeatedly. When nothing happened, he started pounding on it.

"That's not helping," I said. "It's probably a glitch. I'm sure it will fix itself in no time."

"Nothing fixes itself," Mitch said, banging on the emergency button with the side of his hand. "Hello? Hello?"

A bored voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes?"

"We're stuck in the elevator!" Mitch yelled. "Get us out of here!"

"We're aware of the problem," the man said calmly. "The power is out in the entire building and we're running on a generator right now. We ask you for a little patience."

"And I'm asking you to hurry!" Mitch roared before pacing the small space. "I have important things to do, and I also don't want to be late for practice."

I couldn't believe my eyes.

The NHL's fiercest player was unraveling before me.

"Mitch, calm down," I said. "It's going to be fine."

"I can't calm down!" he snapped, his voice cracking. "I'm claustrophobic, okay? And don't you dare tell anyone or I will break your face."

Even though we had never seen eye-to-eye on anything, my compassionate side wanted to help him. He was obviously suffering and I could not imagine what claustrophobia felt like.

Slipping into coach mode, I started with, "We're going to get through this, okay? Trust me. This is what you're going to do: take deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth."

To my surprise, he listened, slumping against the wall, sliding to the floor, and following my instructions.

In. Out. In. Out.

"Very good," I said. "This time, take a little longer when you release the air. That's it. Slowly. Evenly. Do it four times as you feel your body relax."

As he focused on his breathing, I quickly texted Zena to let her know I was running late and stuck in the elevator with Mitch. She replied with the horrified face emoji. I pocketed my phone, figuring distraction was my best bet to keep Mitch calm until someone could get us out. I bit the bullet to engage in a simple conversation.

"Look, Mitch, since we're alone and have some time, I want to sincerely apologize for my behavior in the past," I said.

"I'm not in the mood for small talk right now," he said.

I ignored him and said, "I shouldn't have antagonized you. I'm sorry."

Mitch eyed me suspiciously. "Then why did you do it?"

There was no way I was going to tell him about Mr. Dalton's plan, but maybe I could admit some other things that had been going through my mind at the same time that we were in our fake relationship.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's complicated, but I will tell you I didn't like you trying to get back with Zena when you knew we were together. You would have done the same thing, right?" When he nodded, I shared a little more. "There's no doubt you're a force on the ice. The way you handle the puck, it's like you've got some kind of sixth sense. Half the time, I can't even follow your moves, let alone anticipate them. It's incredible, really, but …"

"But?" Mitch prompted, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it.

"But every time I see you play, it reminds me of what I lost," I said. "What I could have been." I swallowed hard. "Maybe one of the other reasons I was pushing your buttons was because deep down, I was jealous."

Mitch was quiet for a moment, then said, "Interesting…" He studied me, then surprisingly added, "Maybe I can relate."

"Seriously?" I said. "How?"

"Because you had something I wanted too," he said. "Zena. I was jealous, too."

We sat in silence for a bit, letting the admissions sink in.

"Can I ask you something?" I ventured. "Why Zena? I mean, you could have any woman you want, so why pursue a woman who you knew was not interested in you any longer?"

"You want to know the truth?" Mitch asked. "I think it was because she was the one thing I couldn't have. It's stupid, right? I wanted the victory."

"No—not stupid," I said. "It's probably more human than you think."

He nodded, thinking about it. "Not being able to have something is why I started playing hockey. My old man, he tried to go pro and failed, so he did everything he could to discourage me. Told me I'd never amount to anything, that I was wasting my time, that I sucked."

"Wow," I said. "Parents are supposed to be supportive of our dreams and aspirations. That must have been tough to hear from your own dad."

"It was, but he had his own demons he was dealing with," Mitch admitted. "It also made me push harder because I didn't want to end up a bitter man, just like him. It motivated me to prove him wrong, you know? I was determined to prove myself, and there was no turning back until I succeeded."

I nodded. "Yeah …"

"But you know what?" he asked. "Meeting Belle, it opened my eyes and made me realize my obsessions distract me from the truth. It's easy to take your eye off the ball, or in this case, the puck."

"That makes sense," I said. "Zena has done the same for me. She made me realize that if I go through life with blinders on, I may avoid some bad stuff, but I will also miss the good. How did she know I was missing something? It's like these women can see right through us, huh?"

Mitch chuckled. "You got that right."

We shared a moment of understanding, then I held out my hand. "Glad we could chat about this and clear things up a little. I don't expect us to be best friends, but maybe this will allow us to be in the same room without biting the other person's head off. You won't hear a peep out of me for the rest of the season. I promise. I'll keep my head down and maintain the ice, and you can do what you do best: win us that Stanley Cup."

Mitch shook my hand. "Deal. And by the way, that sucks about your injury. One of my buddies blew out his ACL and never played again. For what it's worth, I'm not sure how you would have done in the NHL, but you can trash-talk with the best of them."

I shook my head. "I think I'll stick to being myself from now on. Turns out, playing the bad guy is exhausting, and the guilt hangover isn't worth it."

"Believe me, I know …" Suddenly, Mitch stood up, wiping his brow. "Man, it's getting freaking hot in here. Reminds me of that time my car broke down in Death Valley. One hundred and twenty degrees and the worst day of my life." He pulled off his shirt, then shook a finger at me. "Don't get any ideas. I was feeling constricted. I wish we had some ice under our feet."

"I was thinking of doing the same thing, actually, but let's keep our pants on this time, shall we?" I chuckled, trying to keep the mood light, then pulled my shirt off for some relief from the heat. "This reminds me of a hot yoga class I hated with a passion, speaking of the worst days of our lives."

As Mitch paced, I glanced at the tattoo on his chest that said, "Through adversity to the stars."

"What's the significance of that tattoo?" I asked.

Mitch ran his fingers across it. "Got it after my first major injury. A reminder that challenges make us stronger."

"I can relate to that," I said with a nod.

The elevator jerked again.

Mitch's eyes widened. "We're going to die."

"We'll be fine," I said. "That means they're working on the elevator."

He shook his head, his breathing quickening. "How could you know that?"

"Because the guy said the technicians were on their way, remember?" I answered. "It's just a matter of time and we'll be out of here. Breathe."

Mitch started pacing in front of me again, his movements becoming more frantic as a clanking, metal-on-metal sound reverberated around us. "Time? We don't know how much time we have! What if the cables snap and we plunge to our deaths? What if we run out of air?"

"That will not happen," I said, trying to calm him down again. "Modern elevators have multiple safety features."

"Then why is it so freaking hot in here?" he asked, his voice rising. "What if we're trapped in here for hours? Or days? I can't take this anymore. I need air." He started sweating even more profusely.

I tried to stay calm. "Mitch, listen to me. We're going to be okay. Take a few more of those deep breaths, like you did before. It will relax you."

"Deep breaths? I am way past the deep breath stage." He laughed, but it was tinged with hysteria. "How am I supposed to breathe when the walls are closing in? There's no air." He wasn't listening anymore. His eyes darted around the elevator, panic evident in every movement. "We need to get out of here. Now." His gaze was fixed on the ceiling panel above his head, then he pointed to it. "That's it. That's our way out."

As Mitch reached for the panel, a cold dread washed over me. There was no way I could let him crawl out of the elevator. What if it started moving with him halfway through?

"Mitch, stop!" I lunged forward, but he was quicker, shoving me back with surprising strength. We grappled like two wrestlers in a sauna, our sweat-slicked skin making it nearly impossible to get a firm grip. I desperately tried to pull him down while he fought to reach the ceiling.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" I said.

"Let go of me!" Mitch roared, his elbow connecting with my chin in a burst of stars.

I stumbled back, momentarily dazed. In that split second, Mitch made his move. With a primal roar, he launched a punch at the ceiling panel. The impact echoed through the elevator, and to my shock, the panel popped open.

Seizing the moment, Mitch leaped up, his fingers grasping for the edge of the opening. For a heartbeat, he dangled there, muscles straining, a look of wild determination on his face.

But then, as if in slow motion, I saw his fingers slip. His eyes widened in panic as he lost his grip, his body twisting awkwardly in the air.

I lunged forward to help him, but it was too late.

Mitch crashed to the floor with a sickening thud that seemed to reverberate through my bones. The sound, amplified by our confined space, made the impact seem even more brutal.

No, no, no, this can't be happening.

I dropped to my knees beside him, forcing myself to stay calm as I checked for any signs of life. The relief when I felt a pulse was almost overwhelming.

"Come on, man, wake up," I pleaded, gently shaking his shoulder.

Mitch's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. "What happened?"

"You took a nosedive, Rocket Man," I explained, carefully lifting his head. "Here, use this as a pillow. You should get checked out by a doctor to make sure you don't have a concussion. You hit your head pretty hard."

Just as I slid both of our bundled-up shirts under his head, the elevator lurched to life with a jolt that nearly sent me sprawling across Mitch's chest.

Seconds later, the doors dinged open.

I was shirtless, sweating like a pig, and out of breath, practically straddling an equally half-naked and dazed Mitch. My hands cradled his head in what could only be described by innocent bystanders as a lover's embrace.

The crowd outside—because of course there was a crowd—collectively gasped. I locked eyes with Zena, whose expression cycled through shock, confusion, and something that looked a little too close to amusement. Mr. Dalton, on the other hand, looked like he'd swallowed a puck.

As the silence stretched, broken only by someone's poorly stifled giggle, I realized that no explanation in the world could make this look any less compromising.

I cleared my throat, attempting a casual tone that came out more like a pubescent squeak. "Did someone call for the elevator?"