Page 8 of Face Off With Fate

In one smooth motion, he yanked his Stars jersey off and signed the back with a smile. Always the good guy, the way it should be.

The fan eyed me as he slipped back into the crowd.

“It’s not that big a deal, Monroe. I don’t mind if I have to sign some of my old stuff. They don’t know that my dad⁠—”

“Sucks.” I tucked the red and orange fabric under my arm. “No, they don’t. But now they know they should bring the proper jersey. One that represents you and not him.”

A frown marred his face. “You know that guy’s going to say you stole his jersey? You’re gonna look like the bad guy.”

The corner of my mouth kicked up. “Yup. And you get to be the good guy that gave him one off your back.”

Thatcher’s frown deepened. “Yeah, but⁠—”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind looking like the ass if it means I’m taking care of my guys.” I shrugged off his hand. “Get back to your adoring fans and stop worrying about me.”

He’d done that a lot lately. Ever since his father started dropping hints that I’d been let go from my coaching position in Dallas for a poor attitude. What Vincent Langley said about me to the press didn’t bother me much. As long as I didn’t have to work for the prick, I was cool.

I glued my chin to my chest, barely catching Thatcher’s nod, and strode toward the exit. The blue brim of my ballcap was all I could see. The lack of visibility was worth not being recognized—or not feeling like I was.

If I shoulder-checked a player or two on my way out of this hellhole, well, they’d survive. My guys experienced a whole lot worse out on the ice. Hell, our final game three nights ago was one of the chirpiest. Both rosters got well acquainted with the boards.

“I’m sorry, ladies.”

Christian’s voice drew my attention, and I looked for his black shorn hair and jersey. What could he possibly be apologizing for already?

“I’m flattered, but I can’t come to your wedding…as the groom,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile to the crowd of screaming women holding signs with “Jimenez” and his face on them. They pushed and shoved to reach him, clawing at his jersey.

My disdain for crowds couldn’t keep the smirk off my face. He was right where he wanted to be.

Meanwhile, every inch of my skin itched from being around this many people. The roar of voices, mixed with music from nearby food and vendor stalls, had my temples pounding.

I’d go home right now if I could, but I’d already been told the press junket was mandatory. The faster I did the interviews, the faster I could find some peace.

“Daddy!” My daughter’s voice cut through my thoughts, and the pressure on my chest eased a bit as she ran toward me, taking a running leap into my arms.

“Hey, Golds.” I kissed the top of her head. “Where’s your Nana?”

“Right here,” my mom called out, slightly out of breath as she weaved through clusters of fans and players who’d fanned out to find their families. Her dark brown hair flowed behind her as she speedwalked her way toward me. An easy smile was plastered on her face, blue eyes shining with pride. Same look she gave me after every game I played or coached since I was a kid.

“I might have birthed an athlete, but that doesn’t mean I can keep up with you when you choose to sprint away. And you, Golds, don’t you run away like that.”

“Sorry,” we said in unison, and I set Goldie down.

“Momma, I figured you’d meet me over there.” I canted my head toward the players and family area. “Not used to looking for y’all at my work events.”

“Well, we would’ve been in there if the lines hadn’t been crazy, even with these dang passes that are supposed to get us anywhere.” She picked at the lanyard. “So, you have fun at the parade?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My answer came out too fast—too harsh.

I’d always been a shit liar. It was why I tended to tell the truth or keep my damned mouth shut. Not that either of those kept me out of trouble.

“That so?” She arched a brow, and heat rushed to my cheeks. Didn’t matter that I was thirty-three or had a kid of my own, Cindy Monroe would still tear me a new one if I wasn’t careful.

“Then, Daddy, why’s your face mad?” Goldie chimed in.

“What are you talkin’ about? My face isn’t mad.” I pulled up the corners of my mouth.