Page 1 of Face Off With Fate

ONE

GRACIELLA

ALL MEN NAMED CALEB ARE ASSHOLES. (IYKYK)

I slipped between the brick pillars, wary of every darkened corner—which was basically all of them. Every other entry light bulb was burnt out or flickering, turning the entire apartment complex into a horror film’s wet dream.

I don’t remember it being this creepy last time I was here…

Then again, I didn’t exactly make a habit of memorizing the living situations of the men I hooked up with. Repeat visits weren’t really my thing.

This was a special exception to the rule.

My bladder control had been through the wringer for the last ten minutes. I’d swung at my shadow at least five times. But I shouldn’t complain. Considering what I was doing here, these conditions were perfect—minus the suffocating air thick with motor oil and mildewed grass clippings.

Another droplet of sweat slid down my spine.

“¡Híjole! It’s eleven at night. Why is Dallas as hot as Satan’s ball sack?” I muttered, picking my way over a dried flower bed and patch of crabgrass moonlighting as sod. They were the last thing standing between me and Caleb’s living room window.

The retaining wall lights cast just enough glow to outline the dark silhouette of the frame a few feet ahead, and my chest tightened, heart trying to break through my ribs. This was probably why they’d banned the original Four Loko. A person’s cardiac system wasn’t designed to be exposed to the combination of caffeine, adrenaline, and alcohol.

Or anxiety over committing a crime…

Maybe I should’ve Googled if breaking into a man’s house with a hockey stick counts as attempted assault with a deadly weapon.

I unfurled my fingers from the weapon in question, revealing an angry red line marring my skin. Black marker adorned the white athletic tape wrapped around the top half of the stick, and I swiped my thumb across the scrawled letters, the corners of my mouth tipping higher with each one.

Monroe

God, what would he do if he knew I was about to commit another crime with this?

An unladylike snort slipped out. I’d met Josh Monroe, the NHL coach who worked with my cousin Ari, a few times, and he’d worn the same pissed-off expression for all of them. I’d assumed I’d caused the reaction. Nope. According to every sports media outlet, Mr. Ray-of-Fucking-Sunshine was always like that. I’d be shocked if his brows weren’t permanently stuck in that furrowed position.

I smiled wider at the chunk missing from the end of the blade.

I wasn’t entirely sure why I’d brought the thing, except it was weirdly comforting having the thing around.

A siren wailed in the distance, and my heart dropped into my ass, kicking me into high gear. Despite my growing list of offenses, I didn’t have a criminal record, and I planned to keep it that way.

The glass cooled my palm, my neon-orange manicure practically glowing as I pushed the aged pane. It screeched in protest and I winced.

“Shush!”

Great, now I was scolding inanimate objects.

A blast of air conditioned cold hit my face, and I shot my fist up. Finally, something had gone right today. I stood there, hand on my hip, wearing a smug smile.

I’d told Caleb it was unsafe to leave his windows unlocked, but I’d counted on the fact that he never listened to me.

Except about the freakin’ promotion.

All Calebs are assholes.

“Okay.” I blew a strand of chin-length hair back out of my eyes, ignoring my heart crashing against my ribcage. “Now to get in…”

The weathered sill groaned, my fingers finding purchase to steady myself. Ariella might’ve been right about my upper-body strength being crap. Holding myself up while maneuvering my foot inside was way harder than expected. It would be easier if I let go of the damned stick...

I shifted my weight, trying to slide it forward⁠—