3. Monroe #2
My back went ramrod straight, freezing at the sound of a voice I hadn’t heard in months. Not since Thatcher, Jimenez, and I showed up in that bar three blocks down so Thatcher could get Ariella back.
No, couldn’t be. She was in Dallas…
“Daddy, Daddy.” Goldie tugged at my hand. “It’s the pretty lady who came to our house and said she liked my princess dress.”
My lids fell closed for half a second. Shit.
“What are you—” the question died on my tongue when I turned around to a woman crouched down by my daughter.
Sunshine bounced off the top of glossy black hair, making the strands nearly look blue. I fisted my hand at my side, fighting off the itch to reach out and see how soft they were.
I’d know that voice—that body—anywhere.
Graciella.
“Bunny ear one, bunny ear two, something about around a pole and in a hole…” She snorted. “There, all tied. Don’t want you to trip.” Graciella bopped Goldie on the nose, earning a giggle normally reserved for me.
She turned her smile on me, and my breath lodged in my throat.
“Wow. Looks like your smiling skills haven’t improved at all.” She tilted her head, damn cocky glint in her deep brown eyes.
Nothing about my body seemed to work. Not my mouth, my brain, my sense of self-preservation.
I stood there and stared like an idiot.
“This is a treat, Daddy,” Goldie said, with a chunk of churro stuffed in her cheek. “Dad said that ice cream was a treat, but it’s not. That’s a drink.”
“Because you can’t bite it.”
Graciella’s answer shocked the hell out of me. How was she not even a bit fazed by my kid’s weird logic?
“See, Daddy?”
Graciella scoffed. “How did he not know that?” She wiped the sugar and cinnamon off Goldie’s mouth, and my brain kicked back online.
“Golds, where did you even get that?” I reached for it, and Graciella smacked my hand, pulling Goldie a little closer. Both shot daggers my way.
“Never get between a girl and her food.”
My traitorous kid nodded in agreement, tearing off another chunk, a little pile of churro dust collecting on her shirt.
“Unbelievable.” I ran a hand down my face. “You two met one time, and she takes your side.”
Graciella smirked. “That’s because I’m likable.”
I fought to keep the corner of my mouth anchored down, but it betrayed me, too.
“Would you look at that? He does smile…kinda.” She stood, smoothing her hands over the curve of her hips. A flash of gold caught my attention, and I swallowed the lump in my throat the dainty gold chain circling her waist caused.
“He can smile better.” Goldie cut through the visions of wrapping a finger around that bit of chain. “Show her Daddy, smile like you do for me.”
My tongue ran over my bottom lip. Did I risk disappointing my daughter, or worse, risk letting this infuriatingly magnetic woman see me smile?
The sparkle in Graciella’s eye irritated me. Her being here irritated me.
The way my thoughts wandered to her irritated me.
“Good, I’m glad I caught you.” Thatcher clapped my back, saving me from choosing.
“Hey, Golds, you having fun?” Jimenez asked, coming up on my other side and holding out a hand to her.
“Yeah. Look at the treat Gracie let me have.” She shoved the half-eaten churro at him, a pound of sugar and cinnamon landing at her feet. Almost as much as what coated the corners of her mouth.
“That’s awesome.” He took her hand. “Come on, I think I see Momma Cindy, let’s go so I can ask her out.” Jimenez shot a wink over his shoulder, towing my daughter along.
Worry clawed at my throat. Not at him hitting on my mom. He’d done that for years. It was the look between him and Thatcher.
“Why were you looking for me?” I folded my arms over my chest to hide the way my heart pounded.
Thatcher’s mouth formed a tight line. “Wanted to give you a heads up before the interviews,so you don’t get blindsided—”
“Blindsided by what?”
His eyes flicked to Graciella, then back to me. “Tommy’s getting heat from ownership. Another article dropped.”
The noise of the crowd dulled, even as a cheer broke out somewhere behind me, drowned out by the pulsing in my ears.
“What do you mean, another article?”
Dalton exhaled, digging into his pocket. “This dropped about thirty minutes ago.”
The déjà vu hit full force.
“This is all bullshit.” I shoved the phone back at him like it’d burned me. “None of what it says there about my players is true.” I yanked off my hat, fighting off the urge to toss it on the ground.
Thatcher sighed, pity etched into his face. Same look he’d had when I got injured. “We know the team doesn’t feel this way, and I’m pretty sure I know who leaked this…”
I curled my fist. Vincent Langley.
“But?” I pressed. “I can hear there’s a but in there.”
He tipped his hat, just once. “But Tommy said there are people higher up asking if there’s any validity to the unfit claim.”
“Clearly I’m fit.” Several heads turned our way, and the rumble of the crowd broke through the blood pounding in my ears, reminding me we stood on the edges of a city-wide celebration. I lowered my voice from where it’d gone up a level or two. “We won the damn Stanley Cup. So why are they worried?”
Thatcher winced, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
“They’re more worried about the money. This makes the third article to come out about you, and the board is worried it will affect sales and sponsorships in the coming season.
Look…” He clasped my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
“Don’t worry about it too much. Just make sure your answers are good if you’re asked about it today, and we’ll figure the rest out. ”
Sucking in breaths through my nose, trying to lower my heart rate, I leaned in so the people milling about wouldn’t hear. “What are you not telling me, Thatcher?”
His eyes fell closed. “There’s talk of looking for another head coach this offseason.”
It was barely above a whisper, but he might as well have shouted.
Fired.
It was like my career was being yanked out from under me—again. I trusted people outside my circle to have my back, and I was being left hung out to dry.
Just like last time.
“Or…” Graciella cut in, maneuvering herself between Thatcher and me. Shit, I’d completely forgotten she was there, and she was the last person I wanted witnessing my life fall apart. “We could fix it before it gets to that.”
I stared for a beat. “We?”
“Yes, you and me.” She signaled between us with her hand. Smiling at me with glossy lips, like I hadn’t received shit news.
I cocked a brow. “You think I should have you help me with my image?”
Her eyes sparkled, and the hairs on my neck stood on end. Every warning bell sounded.
“Yes, I could help yo—”
I cut her off. “Absolutely not.”
“Give me one good reason,” she said, hands hitting her hips.
“Because I don’t want your help.”
She clucked her tongue in the same way her cousin did. “That’s not a good reason.”
“I think it is.” I crossed my arms, digging my fingers into my biceps to avoid reaching for her.
“Monroe, it might not be a bad idea,” Thatcher said. “I mean, Gracie knows—”
“I am not taking PR advice from someone I don’t know,” I spat.
That I don’t trust. “She used my hockey stick to vandalize your dad’s car.
Some people still think it was me who did it.
That’s probably the reason for these damned articles to begin with.
What kind of public relations strategy is that? ”
“Allegedly, his car was hit. And they don’t know with what.” She rolled her eyes. “And if I did do something like that, I wouldn’t feel bad about it.”
My scowl deepened. She didn’t even know how to plead her case. Every word out of her pouty lips only solidified my decision against working with her.
“Yeah, that’s the problem. Do you even think through the things you do, Graciella?”
Her head jerked back at the accusation, jaw going slack. Just as quick as her confident demeanor slipped, it was back in place. “Do you think through the things you say, Joshua? Or do you just spout the first assholey thing that pops into your mind?”
“My name isn’t Joshua. And assholey isn’t a word.” God, this woman.
“It should be burro, because that’s how stubborn you are.” She threw her arms in the air, exposing a strip of tanned skin at her midsection.
My mouth dried, the opposite reaction I was going for when it came to her.
“Monroe,” Thatcher cut in, placing a hand on both of our shoulders. Creating space in the gap I hadn’t realized we’d closed. “You do need help being more approachable. Why not—”
“I am approachable.”
“Sure.” Graciella smirked. “In a ‘do not approach the wildlife’ kind of way.”
My jaw ticked. They might have a point. Maybe I did need help with my image. But there was no way in hell it was going to be from Graciella Barrera.
She didn’t make me better. Clearly, she made me worse.
“No. Out of the question. You aren’t the one who’s going to help me,” I said to Thatcher. “I’ll go find Tommy and get this sorted. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.” Or he’ll fire me.
“Aw, Monroe, afraid to spend time with me?”
“No.” I turned, finally looking at her. “I’m afraid you’ll ruin me.”
Her smile sharpened, and my stomach dropped.
“Oh, I absolutely would.”