Page 53 of Face Off With Fate

Graciella:

Are you ignoring me?!?!

Monroe:

The Stanley Cup sat in the middle of a banquet table ten feet away, gleaming under the restaurant's low lights. It looked like they’d taken the entire produce section of a store and arranged it on the table around the trophy. Goldie would’ve called it a giant “snacky plate.” Only, instead of cheese sticks and Goldfish, it was Munster and grainy crackers.

I’d have preferred the Goldfish.

Soft music played through the speakers, serving as background noise amid the murmur of conversations and laughter from groups of well-connected sports figures mingling throughout the room.

Like we were supposed to be.

Instead, Itzel and I stood off to the side at a table tucked between two columns, far enough from the main crowd to avoid being pulled into their conversations. We probably looked as awkward as we felt.

As I felt.

“So…” Itzel started, smoothing her hands down the front of her pale-yellow dress. Whatever the fabric was, it gleamed in the light flickering off the lone candle on the cocktail table. “Do you do this a lot? These events?”

I shifted my weight for what felt like the hundredth time in thirty minutes, my dress shoes sticking slightly to the black-and-white marble floors. I rested my elbow and lowball glass on the black tablecloth. “Nope.”

Her face fell at my short answer, eyes dropping to where she wrung her folded hands. “Oh. Okay then.”

The hair on my jaw scraped the palm of my hand as I rubbed it across my face. Fuck. I was ruining this. Graciella would tear me apart for grunting single syllables. A chuckle slipped out, cutting through the quiet tension.

“What?” There was a timid edge to Itzel’s voice. “Do I have something on my face?” She lifted a hand, brushing at her cheek, catching on a wavy strand of hair she’d left out of the clip thing holding the rest of her hair at the back of her head.

I shook my head. “No, sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at the fact that if Graciella were here, she’d chew me out for my behavior.”

Her smile was soft. Itzel was quiet—shy.

In the short time I’d been around her, that’d become painfully obvious.

She wasn’t filling the silence with incessant ramblings or demanding I hold up my end of a conversation.

She wasn’t Graciella.

And that seemed to be the problem.

“She did say that if you were a jerk, I was supposed to tell her so she could beat you into shape with Monica.” She held up her hands. “Her words, not mine.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. She showed up an hour early to make sure I didn’t screw this up in front of half the league.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over us again.

I broke eye contact, focusing on the table a few feet away. Their glasses clinked, and their heads tipped back in easy laughter. It might not have been directed at us, but it felt like it. It felt like everyone knew we were faking this.

“I didn’t even know this place existed. Did you?” Itzel asked, scanning the room. A little laugh slipped out. “Not that I go out much. That’s Chella. She’s got a whole list of places like this she likes to go eat at.”

“Chella?”

“Sorry, that’s what I call Graciella.”

“What do you mean she’s got an entire list of these things?” I couldn’t keep my damn thoughts to myself, it seemed.

Itzel waved her hand not clutching a wine stem. “She’s a romantic. Loves all of this—restaurants, events, making things feel special. She’s got lists for everything.”

Like the things she asked other men to fix for her…