Page 78 of Face Off With Fate

Graciella’s smile was innocent, but it was bullshit. She knew exactly what she was doing with that comment.

“Trouble. Perfect fucking nickname,” I said, wiping a hand across my mouth.

She shrugged. “You love it.”

“No, I don’t.”

She smiled at the lie.

“Hey, Monroe…”

My eyes flicked back up to hers. The playfulness had morphed into something more vulnerable.

“Fuck them.”

“Huh? What do yo⁠—”

“Fuck the League.” She lifted onto her knees, that damn hem playing with my emotions, and gripped my shoulders. As if I could look anywhere other than into those expressive eyes of hers. “You’re an amazing coach. We are going to make those assholes and the fans fall in love with you.”

Shit, that word coming from her mouth made my stomach dip.

“Because it turns out under all that grunting, and scowling, and yelling, and⁠—”

“You got a point comin’ sometime soon?”

She winked, plopping back down to finish her cake. “You’re not that bad.”

I bit back a smile. “Wow, a glowing review.”

“By the way, you’re a good dad, too,” she said sheepishly.

Blood whooshed in my ears, the words hitting harder than I’d expected. I’d never been told that from anyone besides my mom, not straight to my face, and I did not know how badly I needed to hear those words. Especially from her.

Graciella was a complication I was ill-prepared to deal with. She managed to press every button I had while simultaneously coming along and repairing years’ worth of damage.

“I didn’t have a dad,” I admitted, voice rougher than I wanted. “My mom raised me and did a damn good job. So most of it is following her example.”

She nodded slowly, gaze locked on where her fingers played with the blanket between us. “Well, as a member of the shitty dad club, I may not be an expert in good dads. But from what I’ve seen, Goldie is lucky.”

The confession made me look at her—really look.

There was something raw there, hidden under her humor and fire.

Something I wanted more of.

TWENTY-FIVE

GRACIELLA

MY TWO LITTLE BROKEN BABIES FILLING EACH OTHER’S EMOTIONAL HOLES. (AND EVENTUALLY OTHER HOLES…)

I wouldn’t do well as a captive.

No fucking way I’d survive the torture portion. They wouldn’t even have to pull out a tooth or resort to physical violence. They could just recreate the hellscape I was lying in, and I’d break—tell them whatever they wanted.

There was no hum of an AC or loud yelling from down the hall. There weren’t even the sounds of neighbors having sex.

Nothing to distract me from the swirl of thoughts pounding in my head and the glaring fact that I was in bed with Josh Monroe.