Chapter 1 #2
In the three seconds before the doors close, I spare a glance. I get a profile view—the jaw, the cheekbone, the curl of hair at his temple—and something in my brain fires a warning shot. Something’s familiar…
I do notice that he smells good. Cedar and sandalwood.
Then the doors close. The elevator lurches downward.
And the lights go out.
Yes. I said Go. Out. As in, not a flicker of hope. Out. Completely. Gobbling up the light, leaving us in pitch darkness. The elevator shudders, groans like a mechanical animal in pain, then stops.
My hand flies to the handrail, cold metal biting into my palm.
Silence. Did he move? Sounded a little like he moved toward me.
And then, “Well. That’s not ideal.”
The voice hits me somewhere between my ribs and my spine. Deep. A little rough. The kind that, if I were writing it, I’d describe as handsome.
Which is an absolutely insane thing to think about a disembodied voice in a dark elevator dangling precariously over my likely death.
What can I say? I’m a thriller writer.
I grip the handrail tighter. “Maybe it just needed a little time-out. Like, it’s catching its breath.”
A soft exhale. Almost a laugh. “I’m going to choose optimism.”
“Great. I’m an optimist.” I pause. “That was a lie. I’m a catastrophist. I’ve already planned three escape routes and two worst-case scenarios.”
“What’s the worst case?”
“We’re trapped until morning and resort to cannibalism.”
He laughs. The sound envelopes me like a blanket straight from the dryer. Warm and familiar.
And something about that laugh makes the thriller writer in me go quiet and the romance writer sit up very, very straight.
Okay, suddenly I can think of worse places to be.
Call it the romantic in me.
BECKETT
All things considered, there are worse places I could be than trapped in an elevator with a stranger making jokes about cannibalism. Say…a fundraising event, surrounded by sponsors and media reps who have hook, line, and sinker believed the lies about me.
Yeah, give me snarky cannibal girl any day.
Anything to help me forget I’m having the worst night of my life.
Which, for the record, is saying something.
Because ten minutes ago, I was standing in the Hotel Ivy bathroom, adjusting a tie that was trying to strangle me and telling my reflection to get it together, having been chased (almost) into the men’s room by some online blogger who just wanted the “real story.”
Right. Smile, Benson. Shake hands. Don’t let them see you sweat.
Despite what you’d think, being the most hated player on a hockey team doesn’t get you out of these snobby charity dinners. Your money’s good either way. No, they just seat you near the bathroom and hope you don’t make a scene.
Fact is, I’ve peed in more cups this season than I’ve played games.
That’s not a metaphor. Six months of probation.
Clean tests every two weeks. Random locker checks.
A team-appointed “accountability partner” named Toby, who carries a clipboard and the personality of a damp towel.
All because Cole Thompson pointed a finger and the league decided guilty until proven innocent has a nice ring to it.
The press convicted me in October. The NHL cleared me in November. The Blue Ox put me on probation in December. And I’ve been clean for eleven years.
Here’s the part that keeps me up at night: I did use PEDs. My freshman year of college. I was young and stupid and hungry for approval. I made a poor choice, and I paid for it. I’ve never touched the stuff again, not in eleven years.
Eleven years. And one accusation from Cole erased all of it.
Back to the bathroom—ten minutes earlier, when I bolted in there to dodge the press.
After a longer-than-appropriate moment, I checked to see that the coast was clear and headed back into the ballroom.
These things are all the same—fancy table settings, over-the-top floral arrangements, sappy videos of kids stumbling across the ice, suits and gowns and ties.
I stifled a groan, scanning the room for my teammates.
Near the entrance, a small signing table was set up with a placard: “E.J. Hartley”—just the name. The banner over the doorway gets the book cover and title: “Author of Thriller on Ice—Signing Tonight.”
Stacks of hardcovers were arranged in a neat fan beside a glass of water nobody’s touched. The chair was empty—whoever E.J. Hartley is, they’ve wandered off. I can admit I slowed for a half step. Scanned the cover. A crime thriller. Hockey adjacent. Figures. But I almost picked one up.
“Beckett,” a woman’s voice called out—polite, professional.
I turned to see Felicity, our publicist, winding through the crowd.
She’s on her game tonight. She had that same look I find in the rink, and trailing after her was a middle-aged couple.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair and his wife, who’s rocking one of those short-in-the-back, party-up-front haircuts.
“Hi, Beckett, these are the Hendersons. They’re huge fans of ‘Blue Line’ Benson.
I thought it might be nice if they could get a picture with you. ”
A buzzer sounded inside my head, and I was in the game.
I smiled bigger. I shook hands. Mrs. Henderson’s nephew played hockey in Duluth.
Fascinating. Across the room, Cole Thompson laughed with donors—easy, relaxed.
He caught my eye, and something flickered across his face before he turned away. Oh, I hope it was fear.
A man in an expensive suit clapped my shoulder. “Staying out of trouble these days?” He winked, and wow, I wanted to make a fast break for the door, thank you very much.
I just needed thirty seconds of cold air—into the lobby and back—before Felicity noticed.
I started toward the massive front doors to the ballroom, froze as a swath of familiar donors wandered through the doors. Nope. I veered off course, following a waiter through a small door on the opposite side of the room.
A service hallway. Maybe Someone was looking out for me.
Aw, doubtful. And then, at the end of the hall, I spotted the doors of a small elevator sliding shut. I didn’t think. I broke out in an almost run and shot my hand through the gap at the last moment.
I stepped inside, smacked that little star button for the lobby, loosened my tie, and slouched back against the handrail. That’s when I noticed the other passenger.
It was a three-second impression: short, dark hair, simple black dress, no sequins. Something on her wrist catching the fluorescent light. And then—
And then the lights died. And the stranger made a joke about cannibalism. And I laughed for the first time in what felt like months.
Maybe it has been months. Maybe it’s been more than that.
Anyway, here we are.
I pat my suit jacket, searching for my phone. Nothing. I groan. “Left my phone in my coat…at coat check.”
“Left my purse at my table…”
“So, no phones.”
“No phones. No light. No rescue party.” She chuckles, the sound of her voice silky in the dark. “This is either a meet-cute or a horror movie, and I’m not sure which.”
Meet-cute. That’s a romance novel term. And I know that because that’s what I read. Romance novels. Which is information I will be taking to my grave. “Let’s go with meet-cute. Less screaming.”
“You don’t know that. Serial killers need to meet people too.”
Even though I can’t see her, I still glance up at her, the black swirling in my vision. “You’re a little morbid. You know that?”
“I’ve been told.” There’s warmth to her voice, humor cutting through the cynicism. I sort of like that.
“How about the emergency phone?”
She shifts in the dark, the sound of something scraping against metal. “No dice. Buttons are out too.”
“Well then.” I let out a breath, tugging my tie looser, letting out the top button of this stuffy shirt as I slide to the floor. “Might as well get comfy.”
I can hear her sighing from across the expanse of inky darkness.
Silence. I’m not sure what to say.
The minutes stretch on. Somewhere above us, a storm is burying Minneapolis, which explains the power outage.
The cold creeps in through the floor, through my dress shoes and my pants. The elevator car smells like old carpet and chilled metal. I hear her shift again.
“Are you cold?” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re making the elevator rattle.”
“That’s…not me.”
“Hokay.” I’m already shrugging off my jacket. I hold it out in the dark, aiming for approximately where she is. My hand finds her shoulder. “Here.”
She jerks back. “I’m not taking your jacket.”
“Don’t worry about it. I run hot. Hockey player metabolism. I’m basically a furnace.”
More silence, then, quietly, “Thanks.” Her small voice fills the dark. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“My mom raised me right.” My head thumps back against the wall. “That’s about the only thing I’ve got going for me these days.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Bad night?”
“Bad six months.” The words come out before I can stop them. I blame the darkness. It does something to your defenses, you know?
Or it could be her voice. Or maybe I’m just tired. “I’m at this dinner because I have to be, not because anyone wants me here. I’m smiling and shaking hands with people who think I’m—” I stop. “Sorry. You didn’t sign up for a therapy session.”
“Nah, I didn’t. But I’m here anyway, and it’s not like there’s someone better to talk to.”
I let out a hollow chuckle. “Wow, very encouraging. Really makes me want to pour my heart out.”
She laughs, and somehow her shoulder brushes mine.
Like she’s moved closer. Probably for warmth (let’s not get carried away). But still, the gesture seems almost like camaraderie. That time we survived a broken elevator in the middle of a perilous winter night. Now I sound like someone who’s been trapped in the dark too long.
“Maybe this is all part of God’s plan,” she says. “Maybe He thought to Himself today, Hey, this guy needs someone to talk to. Let’s just lock these two in an elevator.”