Page 88 of Face Off With Fate

“Yeah, I got it,” I answered, attention glued to Graciella, who was trying to counteract the crying by smiling too widely. “You look unhinged, Trouble. You’re right, it is a beautiful moment for all of them, and thanks to you, I get to deliver a dream to one of them in person.” I squeezed her hand, standing as Tommy announced it was our time to go.

Her practiced smile turned genuine, her gaze following me as I stepped around our seats. “Please prove to them you know how to speak in full sentences,” she said.

Then, because I’d lost my damned mind, I kissed the top of her head, whispering, “We’ll see.”

TWENTY-NINE

GRACIELLA

“I APOLOGIZE WHEN I’M WRONG. NOT WHEN PROVOKED.”

He’d kissed my hair in an arena with thousands of witnesses.

A thrill shot down my spine, followed by regret and confusion.

I swiveled to check if anyone was looking my way. Most eyes were on the stage, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t seen.

Monroe’s booming voice halted my search. My eyes moved to find him instead.

“I remember what it was like to sit where you all sit, the nerves racing through your system. It feels like your future rides on this moment. On when you get picked…if you get picked.” He paused, commanding the crowd’s attention as he looked around. His face shone with pride.

“I want you to hear me when I tell you, you should all be very proud of the hard work, dedication, and sacrifice you’ve put in. And your futures are bright because of those qualities, regardless of the outcome tonight, a year from now, five years from now.”

His voice was confident—proud. Same way he’d spoken to the women’s team.

“And while I wish all of you the best in your careers, there’s one player in particular whose career I look forward to helping shape. The San Jose Stars, this year’s Stanley Cup winners, select out of Chicago, Illinois, Alejandro García,” Monroe said, eyes finding Tommy, who had a smile plastered on his face, beaming at his head coach. The nod of approval he gave Monroe had my heart soaring.

The crowd erupted, the section where Alejandro sat louder than all the rest with their whistles and gritos. My Mexican heart swelled with joy, and I joined in, letting out a whistle my tíos would be proud of.

I swiped at my cheek, trying to clear my vision. My mascara was putting in work, with how I was waterboarding my lashes.

The young kid made his way up to the stage, embracing his new coach, who handed him his jersey and hat. Monroe smiled at his new player the way he did with Goldie.

The way he did with me…

“I still cannot believe you can whistle like that,” Monroe chuckled, pulling me back to the present.

“You think that’s impressive, you should hear my cousin Ricky do it,” I said, trying to ignore the heat from his hand on my back as he navigated us through the crowd of people loitering around. He escorted me like he was my bodyguard.

“Excuse me, Mr. Monroe, sir?”

The little voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Could you sign this for me?”

“Of course.” Monroe flashed another sincere smile. A weird feeling looped through me as I watched him kneel and sign the jersey the kid carried. “Here, have your parent or guardian send my assistant an email. I’ll get you a jersey signed by all the guys.”

The boy’s little face lit up.

The entire exchange shattered the pathetically weak walls I’d erected to pretend I wasn’t falling head over fuckin’ heels for the hot, grumpy single dad who the world believed was dating my friend.

“I’m impressed. You didn’t totally suck at interacting with humans today,” I said quietly as we walked into the teams-only lounge.

It was quieter here, with only a handful of people mingling or catching a moment of peace before heading back out into the chaos.

Monroe’s stupid crooked grin made an appearance, setting off a flurry of butterflies. “Wow. Such high praise from my PR handler.”

“What can I say? I’m great at giving praise.”