Page 5 of Face Off With Fate

Her brows wrinkled. “First off, who’s Monica?”

“My emotional support hockey stick. Should I paint it green?” I asked, though, mentally, I was already adding matching rhinestones to the thing. “Spray paint will work, right? I don’t feel like sanding it and shit.”

“I’m not even going to address that.”

I shrugged. Monica was the least problematic part of the last twenty-four hours. “Fine, don’t come crawling to me when you want your own in pink. What was the second thing?”

“Oh, second off, pendeja, why are you dressed like an extra in a homemade Ocean’s 11 movie? You never wear black. And why did you call me twenty times in the middle of the night and ask that I pick you up at the ass crack of dawn?”

Damn. It was like going to confession with her. Maybe that was the reason for the bad luck. I hadn’t gone to Mass in…well, a while.

“That was like a second, third, and fourth thing.” I rested my head back against the buttery soft cognac sofa, the same one from Dalton’s last place, and studied the dark wood beams spanning across the textured ceiling of their Spanish-style home.

Their place was everything Ari had dreamed of having when we were kids. Big arched windows with walnut trim offered a glimpse of a lush backyard and flanked a plastered fireplace with a thick wooden mantel. The burnt orange Saltillo tiles were always cool beneath bare feet, even in the thick of California heat.

“Just tell me why you’re here,” Ari said. “And don’t feed me some bullshit about coming to the parade.”

I sat up, leveling her with a glare. “That wasn’t a lie. I wanted to go to the game, too, but my PTO was denied.”

Now I have all the time off I want…

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, the tip of my nail digging under my polish and sending a chunk flying. Ari’s new team, the San Jose Stars, had won the Stanley Cup two days ago, and here I was wallowing on her couch. But I didn’t know where else to go. Things between my mom and me were…complicated. I loved her, and she loved me, but I wasn’t going to her for comfort or advice.

Hell, I hadn’t told her I was back in town.

And my dad’s only contribution to my life was lifelong daddy issues I still worked through in therapy. I wouldn’t know how to contact him if I wanted to.

Which I didn’t.

Ari was shitty at keeping her thoughts from broadcasting across her face, too. Her deep brown eyes were narrowed, and her full lips pressed into an unamused line. Without any words, I knew she was saying, “You’re full of shit.”

“Fine.” I let out a long, defeated breath, repositioning the pink and green needlepoint pillow I’d gifted her under my head. It read “pussy power” with two little cat ears around the phrase. “I was passed up for the promotion and didn’t want to be alone,” I said, easing into the full story.

I loved my prima, but we were like the sun and the moon. Complementary but completely different. Everyone saw her as the level-headed one. The one who took the time to assess her options before making a decision.

Whereas I came across as impulsive, flying by the seat of my pants. Which, fair…but no one bothered to consider that maybe it wasn’t purely impulsivity, it was control. If I stayed ahead of things and adjusted fast enough, I didn’t have to sit there and wait for everything to fall apart.

That was what I did—adapted. Fixed it.

Before it could break me.

Ari’s coconut scent wrapped around me in a comforting embrace at the same time her arms did, solid and strong from years in the gym.

“Ay, Graciella,” she murmured into my hair, my full name rolling off her tongue in a way I hadn’t realized I’d missed. Dallas might have a large Spanish-speaking population, but the sports media industry was overwhelmingly white. And “Gracie” eliminated the need to roll that first “r”.

I pressed my face into her shoulder, my fingers bunched in the athletic fabric like if I let go, I’d fall apart. The burn behind my eyes intensified, the waterworks threatening to take over again. I’d spent the entire red-eye replaying the fiasco, trying to figure out how to undo it—to get my job back.

Nothing. Not a single idea.

“I really liked that job, Ari,” I said into the damp fabric.

“I know.” She didn’t catch the past-tense slip, too busy smoothing over my hair. “You work your ass off for it, too. I’m sure you’ll get the next promotion.”

My throat tightened, and I forced myself to pull back. “I broke into his apartment, and they were fucking.”

“You…” She blinked, shaking her head once. “Wait, what?”

“With the hockey stick.” I pointed a finger at my felony accomplice. “I was going to make Caleb turn the job down, admit it should be mine.”