28. Monroe
TWENTY-EIGHT
MONROE
HE’S NOT EVEN TRYING TO FIGHT THIS. HAHA.
The energy in the arena was electric, dredging up memories of when I was a young prospect sitting in the stands with my mom, waiting for my chance to walk across that stage and put on a jersey. Now I was about to hand someone else their dream.
So many factors went into Draft picks, especially when you selected as low down the list as we did. It wasn’t just the young men here tonight who played into decisions. Salary caps, potential trades, talent coming out of college teams…
The list was dizzying.
It was intimidating as hell to be here for everyone involved.
Thousands of people filled row after row of seats. Spectators who wanted a firsthand experience, plus the family and friends of the potential players, all waiting—hoping—their hopeful’s name would be called.
But that wasn’t where we sat.
Down on the floor, phones rang incessantly, the chatter around the table attempting to compete with the announcers. Roars of applause added to the pressure of making picks.
It was like a damned war room on the floor.
Analyzers, GMs, coaches—all the movers and shakers of our sport were here. And if they weren’t physically in the room, they were videoing in, ready to call in trades, sweep up draft picks, or gather general intel. We were all attempting to forecast what the next season could look like.
Two hundred and forty-four picks.
Thirty kids’ lives had already changed, and I wanted the pick who’d soon call the Stars his home to be proud to play for our team.
For me.
A small hand gripped my knee, pulling my attention away from the tablet I’d been studying with Tommy.
But Graciella wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were glued to the stage where pick number thirty-one was shaking the commissioner’s hand.
I leaned over, catching a tear with my thumb. First time I’d let myself touch her since this morning.
I’d run out of the bathroom before she told me that what we’d done was a mistake.
Couldn’t tell if I felt it was or not, either…
The distance I’d decided we needed went out the window, though, when I saw her tears. “Hey, hey, hey, why are you crying? Don’t mourn your career yet. I swear I won’t stand up there and grunt,” I joked, hoping like hell it’d help fix whatever was wrong.
She shook her head, her hair unmoving in its slicked-back style, tucked behind her ears. “That’s not why I’m crying,” she whispered, using the Kelly green sleeve of her suit to dab at her eyes. She’d said it was a lucky coincidence that her favorite color was the same as our team’s.
“It’s so beautiful that all these kids…their dreams are coming true. And that one,”—she gestured toward the stage— “they said his dad worked three jobs to pay for him to keep playing.”
The vulnerability in her eyes when she looked at me hit me like a train. The hurt, the hope—the happiness—they all shone through. Heat prickled along the collar of my dress shirt.
The anger I’d felt last night at her father reared its head again.
“Monroe,” Tommy said beside me, tugging on my shoulder. “We’re up in five.”
“Yeah, I got it,” I answered, attention glued to Graciella, who was trying to counteract the crying by smiling too widely.
“You look unhinged, Trouble. You’re right, it is a beautiful moment for all of them, and thanks to you, I get to deliver a dream to one of them in person.
” I squeezed her hand, standing as Tommy announced it was our time to go.
Her practiced smile turned genuine, her gaze following me as I stepped around our seats. “Please prove to them you know how to speak in full sentences,” she said.
Then, because I’d lost my damned mind, I kissed the top of her head, whispering, “We’ll see.”