Face Off With Fate (A Scoring Chance #2)

1. Graciella

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—

Shit.

The hockey stick skittered across the linoleum as the world tilted sideways. My ass tipped damn near over my head, stopped only by my knee catching the window casing. Pain exploded through my face and shoulder as they broke the fall, my lungs struggling to regain air.

“Ow.”

Move, Graciella. Get. Up.

Nothing. Not even a pinky toe twitched.

Life Alert might have a new target audience. Because I couldn’t be the only person to discover that fight and flight weren’t the only panic responses while lying sprawled out on an ex-office-fuck’s floor.

Apparently, freezing was the third option.

A slice of light streamed through the open window, bathing the cramped living room’s mismatched furniture with an orange tinge that glinted off a collection of empty beer bottles.

That probably explained why no footsteps pounded down the hall to investigate the crash.

A few beats passed, and still no one emerged from the shadows.

I rested my forehead on the linoleum, the faint scent of dirt and food tickling my nose as I sucked in air, finally remembering how to breathe.

People said my situational awareness was bad?

There was an active break-in at this man’s home, and he didn’t bother checking the crash in his apartment?

Not even a yell to ask if anyone was there—or a damn light flicking on.

I rolled my eyes and army-crawled forward until my legs could join the party on this side of the window.

The frame dug into my hips as I wriggled.

Car alarms and traffic noise filtered in from the distance, helping to hide my hiss.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, logic begged me to reconsider. To not be so impulsive.

Too bad.

Planting my feet, I rose to a crouch, duck-walking farther into the room.

There was no version of reality where I left this apartment without finishing what I came here to do.

This man-child stole the position I’d been working toward since I accepted the sports marketing job, and he was going to give it back.

I scooped up my partner in crime from where it’d landed near the foot of the wood and glass coffee table littered with piles of small caffeine pouch tins—there was a fifty-fifty shot they were empty—and finance magazines.

My jaw ached where I bit down, staring at the cover of the Financial Times like I could set it on fire.

Caleb wasn’t even interested in public relations, hadn’t even known about the opening until I’d mentioned it two weeks ago. I shouldn’t have said anything. He’d asked me to stay the night, and I’d panicked, fed him some bullshit excuse about needing to prepare for my interview.

Creating fictional plans had seemed better than discussing why I didn’t sleep over with men…ever. Let them break my back while the moon was out? Sure. But closing my lids and falling into dreamland together?

Never.

Staying overnight implied intimacy, and intimacy led to disappointment.

Why hadn’t I told him I had a pap smear to get to?

I shook off the thought, lip curling as I maneuvered around what looked like a pile of underwear and pants, both probably dirty—it was hard to tell in the dim light of his hallway.

Pig. He didn’t have to leave his apartment to do laundry, and he still couldn’t be bothered?

I loved my little studio, but damn, it would be nice to fall asleep without staring at kitchen cabinets or being judged by a pile of dirty clothes.

He didn’t need this promotion. I did.

He didn’t deserve this promotion. I did.

I reached his bedroom door and my bravado wavered.

The little voice asking, “Why didn’t you wait until he called you back to address this?

” got loud. I knew where I should be, tucked in bed, contemplating whether that man with the wild hair was onto something with the whole aliens-built-the-pyramids thing.

Not pressing the side of my sweaty face against a door. But here I was.

Damn it.

There was a faint thumping, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the room or my chest. My sweaty palm hovered over the knob, teeth digging into the fleshy part of my bottom lip.

Was I really going to do this? Bust in there and demand he turn down the position?

I glanced over at where I knew the in-unit washer-dryer combo hid behind accordion doors. That was all the motivation I needed. My grip tightened on the stick, and I barreled into his bedroom.

“Caleb, you piece of shit, give me back my—”

The words died on my tongue as my eyes adjusted to the light, which steeped the room in varying shades of red glow from the LED strips tacked unevenly along the ceiling.

Perfect setting for the horror-porno I’d seemed to barge into.

I blinked a few times, trying to confirm what was in front of me—pale, bare ass cheeks.

My damaged shoulder collided with the flimsy doorframe, the smell of sweat and sex finally registering in my brain.

That thumping was not my heart.

Caleb whipped around, his usually blond hair a pale red under the lighting. “What the hell, Gracie? Why the fuck are you holding a wizard’s staff?”

I was too shell-shocked from finding our boss on all fours to respond.

The very woman who, not twelve hours earlier, had clasped my hand and told me I was “a shoo-in” for the position.

“Gracie!” Tyra scrambled, hair flying everywhere as she yanked the navy sheet around herself, clutching it in her manicured hand. “What are you doing here?”

A hollow laugh tumbled out. “Me? Pretty sure I should be asking you that.” I waved a hand. “But hey, now I understand why your email said I wasn’t the right person to fill the position.”

“That is not—”

“Gracie, baby,” Caleb cut in, arms spread wide like he was posing for a photo. He even flexed, making his pec jump. “I didn’t know you were into this, but I’m down to try. You can watch, you can join…”

“Ew.” I tightened my grip on the hockey stick and swung at his balls. He jumped back with a strangled squeal. “Put your dick away, no one wants to see that.”

“What the hell! Did you just try to attack me?”

“Please,” I rolled my eyes. “I pointed in your direction…enthusiastically.”

“Gracie, you’re crossing a line. Stop while you’re ahead.” Tyra snapped, doing her best to appear in control despite being naked in the middle of a mattress piled with crumpled sheets and clothes. Damn thing wasn’t even on a box spring, much less a bed frame.

I barked out a laugh that bordered on unhinged, leaning on the tallboy dresser for support. Those words were code for shut the hell up. I’d spent eighteen years biting my tongue to appease others. I didn’t do that anymore.

“You had me fooled.” My hand shook as I pointed at her, orange nails appearing crimson.

“I believed you when you said you wanted to empower women in the sports media industry. But clearly that was bullshit. Because you gave a mediocre white man a position he doesn’t deserve.

He’s as shit in bed as he is at his job, and you know that. ”

“Hey.” Caleb folded his arms over his muscled chest, shooting me a pathetic pout. “I’m n—”

“Enough.” Tyra straightened her back, shooting daggers my way. “Your behavior tonight is completely unprofessional.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you.” I tilted my chin up with false bravado. “Have you told HR about you two, or should I?”

She didn’t even blink. “Consider this your notice, Gracie. You’re terminated, effective immediately.”

Her words hit like a sucker punch, knocking the air from my lungs. My knees threatened to buckle and I clutched onto the hockey stick like it was my lifeline. I just knew that when I unclenched my fists, there’d be perfect indentations of where my hands were.

“You’re firing me?” The words came out louder than expected. “For unprofessionalism?”

Of all the ways I’d imagined tonight going, this was not one of them.

“Yes.” Tyra’s head was tipped so high she was practically addressing the ceiling.

Her blonde locks trailed down her back, and her lips pulled up in a sneer.

“You’ve crossed boundaries and shown you can’t separate personal entanglements from work.

That’s not someone I can trust in a high-visibility role—or in any role representing my company. ”

She was flipping this back on me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

“HR will be in touch with the paperwork. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow.”

My mind whirled, unable to latch on to a single thought. Every solution slipped through like sand. The only thing that stuck was one question: what the hell am I supposed to do now?

“Tough break, babe,” Caleb added. Apparently, he had a death wish.

“Go fuck yourselves.” I spat the words and stormed out, the door slamming behind me, cutting off Tyra’s shouts. I needed to get out of there, fast, but my feet were suddenly made of cement blocks.

Don’t you dare cry while you’re in this man’s apartment building.

They didn’t get to witness my world fall apart. I’d been cut off at the knees once before by someone who’d meant way more to me than them. I’d survive this, too.

Younger Graciella would’ve begged and pleaded for her job back, craving their approval.

She’d been too naive to realize that if you had to beg for acceptance, you’d already been dismissed.

Muggy air melded with hot tears breaking free as I pushed back out into the Dallas heat. I stumbled through the courtyard, much faster now that I didn’t care who saw me.

“Ma’am?”

My head popped up, and I wiped at my tears to see more than a blurry silhouette leaned against the driver’s side door of a car. I fucking hated that I cried when I was angry.

The rideshare driver.

God, he deserves more than the twenty I gave him to stay until I was done.

He pushed off, and the glow of the parking lot lights showed a face creased with concern. “Are you…okay?” he asked, extending a hand, but letting it drop before it reached my shoulder.

“God no!” was on the tip of my tongue, but he’d dealt with enough of my shit for one night. He didn’t need a breakdown, too.

I kicked at an empty water bottle, eyes glued to the asphalt. “Can you just take me home now?” My quiet, lonely home. My stomach dropped. “And then to the airport?” I blurted, shoving away the panic threatening to take hold.

The driver’s brows furrowed, gaze scanning my body before darting over my shoulder, probably waiting to see if alarms would blare before agreeing to take a crying woman sporting freshly scraped elbows and a hockey stick to the damn airport.

“No one’s coming,” I said.

No one ever did.

And that was just fine with me.