Page 7 of Face Off With Fate

“Wow.” Itzel dropped into the striped armchair, tucking a leg under herself and reaching for her own drink. “That’s…a lot.”

Didn’t I fucking know it.

“I think you have a case for wrongful termination,” Ari said, trying to be helpful. Itzel nodded in agreement. “I mean, you’d have to somehow get around the whole potential felony implications of your story...”

“Cool,” I deadpanned. “I’ll add ‘legal fees’ to my list of things I can’t afford.”

Silence fell again, this one heavier. We all knew I wasn’t getting that job back, and I wasn’t winning a case against them.

Itzel leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “What are you going to do?”

I exhaled slowly. “I’ve already started sending out applications: PR, marketing, a fucking dog-walker for a player. I’ll take whatever.” I grabbed my coffee, needing some caffeinated dopamine to face reality. “I just need a foot in the door.”

They both studied me for a long moment, trying to see past the optimistic words to what I was really feeling.

“I’m fine!” I forced a smile. “I’ll figure it out, I always do.”

“Yeah…” Itzel said, sharing a look with my prima. “You do. But maybe⁠—”

“I’ve got this,” I cut in, softer this time. “I just need someone to give me an opportunity, and I know I can make it work.”

Didn’t matter where it came from or who it was with.

I’d make it work.

Always did.

THREE

MONROE

THE WAY SHE LIVES RENT FREE IN HIS HEAD.

The bus exhaust mixed with spilled beer and sweat, clinging to the mid-morning air. Heat was already rising off the pavement. I stepped off the double decker, knocking off confetti that still clung to the blue and green polyester jersey I’d worn despite not being a player. “Coach” was stitched into the back of mine, drawing more attention than I wanted.

Thank god, we were finished with the city’s Stanley Cup victory parade. Being driven around with thousands of fans blurring together into a sea of raised phones and waving hands wasn’t my idea of a good time.

But the guys deserved the celebration for all their hard work.

Sweat plastered the fabric to my back, peeling away slightly as I shifted out of the way so Dalton and the rest of the team could exit. His foot barely hit the ground before the crowd surged forward, the metal barricades and security barely able to hold them back. Thousands of voices echoed in unison off the downtown buildings surrounding us. Cheering for the Stars’ captain who’d clutched the winning goal.

“Thatch-er! Thatch-er!”

A deafening combination of claps and whistles followed.

Thatcher’s felt cowboy hat caught the sun as he waved it in an arc over his head, a grin plastered on his face. He wore the damn thing all the time now for some reason. The heart eyes Ariella gave him when he did might’ve had something to do with that.

Mine still sat in a moving box in my closet. Might stay there forever with the way the damn things stuck out like sore thumbs in the Bay Area.

I shook my head, moving behind him.

“Thatcher, Thatcher, can you sign my jersey?” A guy whose body hung halfway over the metal corral shoved a Dallas Desperados jersey at him with “Langley” across the back.

I snatched it before it got to Thatcher’s hands. “Get one with his actual last name.” Not his piece of shit dad, who only wanted to use him.

The guy blanched at the irritation in my tone, stumbling back into the crush of bodies. I hadn’t meant to sound so pissed off. My shoulder warmed under a familiar hand.

“Hey, it’s no problem,” Thatcher said. Whether it was to me or the fan, I wasn’t sure. “You can have this one.”