3. Monroe
THREE
MONROE
THE WAY SHE LIVES RENT FREE IN HIS HEAD.
The bus exhaust mixed with spilled beer and sweat, clinging to the mid-morning air.
Heat was already rising off the pavement.
I stepped off the double decker, knocking off confetti that still clung to the blue and green polyester jersey I’d worn despite not being a player.
“Coach” was stitched into the back of mine, drawing more attention than I wanted.
Thank god, we were finished with the city’s Stanley Cup victory parade. Being driven around with thousands of fans blurring together into a sea of raised phones and waving hands wasn’t my idea of a good time.
But the guys deserved the celebration for all their hard work.
Sweat plastered the fabric to my back, peeling away slightly as I shifted out of the way so Dalton and the rest of the team could exit.
His foot barely hit the ground before the crowd surged forward, the metal barricades and security barely able to hold them back.
Thousands of voices echoed in unison off the downtown buildings surrounding us.
Cheering for the Stars’ captain who’d clutched the winning goal.
“Thatch-er! Thatch-er!”
A deafening combination of claps and whistles followed.
Thatcher’s felt cowboy hat caught the sun as he waved it in an arc over his head, a grin plastered on his face. He wore the damn thing all the time now for some reason. The heart eyes Ariella gave him when he did might’ve had something to do with that.
Mine still sat in a moving box in my closet. Might stay there forever with the way the damn things stuck out like sore thumbs in the Bay Area.
I shook my head, moving behind him.
“Thatcher, Thatcher, can you sign my jersey?” A guy whose body hung halfway over the metal corral shoved a Dallas Desperados jersey at him with “Langley” across the back.
I snatched it before it got to Thatcher’s hands. “Get one with his actual last name.” Not his piece of shit dad, who only wanted to use him.
The guy blanched at the irritation in my tone, stumbling back into the crush of bodies. I hadn’t meant to sound so pissed off. My shoulder warmed under a familiar hand.
“Hey, it’s no problem,” Thatcher said. Whether it was to me or the fan, I wasn’t sure. “You can have this one.”
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.
“No.” Her button nose wrinkled, the blonde waves sticking out from under her Stars hat flinging around as she shook her head. “Das still a mad face.”
“Honey, that’s your dad’s default face when he’s not around you,” my mom teased, tossing a wave to a group of people walking by with their phones out. I caught a few mentions of my name and something about an article, but was too busy pulling Goldie further away.
I tugged her brim down, shielding her with my body. Unease settled back in my gut. “Momma, people might have to buy a ticket to get into this section of San Pedro, but they’re still strangers. You know how I feel about them digging into my personal life.”
Maybe I should’ve insisted they stay home, but I’d wanted the most important women in my life here to celebrate my achievements.
My mom sighed. “Get out of your head, Josh. You worked hard for this. You deserve to enjoy it. Most people have fun at these types of things.”
“Most people don’t have to go be questioned by a pack of hungry lions.” Denim scraped against my knuckles, my pockets barely surviving my hands shoving into them.
She let out another sigh. “Just…try and smile a little, won’t ya? You’re the youngest head coach to win the Cup. That’s what they’re going to ask you about. I bet all the other stuff is old news now.”
I grunted. The media section loomed in the distance, mocking me.
My dislike for the NHL’s ass-kissing was a constant sore point. I loved the game, my players, the chill of the rink, and even the fans, when they weren’t shoving to be up in our face. But being on display?
That part I hated.
“Daddy, you know what’s a good idea?”
Her little voice pulled me back to the present, along with the insistent tug of her hand on mine.
“What’s a good idea, Golds?”
“If we get a little treat.” She pushed her bottom lip out and stared up at me with pleading eyes.
Jimenez was skating lines for teaching her that look.
My mom nudged her shoulder. “That is a good idea. You make your dad get ya something good. I’m gonna go grab me a candy apple and be right back.” She shot me a wink before disappearing into the throng of people.
So much for acting as a strong front against sugar.
“So, can we?”
I looked down to where a little hand was tucked in mine.
“Did the ice cream you ate before we left the house not count?” I asked, shaking my head and steering us toward a row of food vendors, dodging people clutching paper trays and precariously balanced drinks.
Savory and sweet perfumed the air. There was everything from tacos to chocolate-dipped cones.
“No, Daaaaaad. Ice cream isn’t a treat. It’s a drink.”
I barked out a laugh. The guys joked that I didn’t find anything funny. None of them were funny. But this little five-year-old? Had me laughing all the time.
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, I can’t bite it. Cause it hurts my teef. So I have to lick it.” She held her free hand out to the side, palm up, flinging it around. “So it’s like a drink on my tongue.”
“Right…”
I used to try and fight her on this stuff but quickly learned that little kid brains are…well, they’re fucking weird, and she was stubborn as hell.
We wove through more fans rushing to find their favorite players. Goldie tucked into my side as I scanned the crowd, glaring anytime someone stepped too close. “What about cotton candy?”
“No, Dad. Das a drink too. Remember, a drink is something you can’t bite.”
“Logically.” I searched the stands for something that qualified as “a treat” under her stipulations.
“Hey, Golden girl.”