8. Monroe
EIGHT
MONROE
HE KNOWS EXACTLY HOW SHE GOT THAT LEASH AROUND HIS THROAT. HE SAT THERE LIKE A GOOD BOY AND BEGGED FOR IT.
“We need to talk about getting you a girlfriend.”
“Fake,” I called over my shoulder toward where I’d left Graciella by Tommy’s door. The distinction didn’t help the situation I’d found myself in.
Relationship.
The word was ash on my tongue. Fabricated or not, I wanted nothing to do with it. I quickened my pace, taking the stairs two at a time, the temperature dropping with each step.
“Would you slow down?”
“Jog or something. I’m not slowing down.”
It was a lie—I’d already slowed, allowing her to catch up. Truthfully, I hadn’t realized I’d sprinted out of there. Too focused on getting out of Tommy’s and somewhere I could process.
Rubber and the faint scent of bleach welcomed me home, loosening the tension by a hair. If only I could ditch the woman who’d somehow gotten a leash around my damn throat.
Maybe I should retire.
Yeah, retiring twenty-something years early was sure to work. I kneaded my temple. Feeling hot despite the chill coming from the ice rinks nearby. We skirted around them, the noise rising with every entryway we passed.
“Where are we even headed?” Graciella asked, voice slightly muffled. “God, I didn’t realize Stars’ ice was so big. Wow, there’s curling here, too? Isn’t that more of a Canadian thing? Oh my god, is that a bar?”
I shook my head. “I can’t even tell if you’re wanting me to answer or just announcing your every thought.”
Turning, I found her sticking the upper half of her body into another open doorway. The hemline of her dress teased the backs of her shapely thighs. Not quite high enough to show the curve of her ass, but enough to make my dick stir.
She was loud, impulsive—borderline reckless—and wore her emotions on her sleeve. All the telltale signs she was not the right person for me.
The reminder was pathetic.
I stomped away, needing distance.
“My office.” The heavy glass door was cool against my palm, but I paused when the green name placard caught my attention.
Josh Monroe
Stars Head Coach
Fuck. It might not say that much longer.
They’d replace it with someone else’s, like I was never here…
I pressed my shoulders back, striding inside.
The rink noise was cut off by the click of my door, replaced by the low conversations of sports casters that played nearly twenty-four seven on the grid of four mounted televisions.
Only exception being when I watched film.
Player files were piled on top of my desk, calling me over.
A few lay open, notes scribbled on their profiles.
Their pictures reminded me of why I was going along with this.
I let out a deep breath, hoping I’d exhale some of the doubt, too.
Time to stop being a little bitch.
My team won because of our ability to adapt when shit hit the fan—to skate a good game when nothing went as planned. I needed to do the same.
I dropped into the chair, letting my head fall into my hands.
“Wow, this is really nice.”
My head popped up at Graciella’s voice.
“Did you know there’s a whole laundromat here? Can anyone on staff use it?” She hitched a thumb toward the hall.
My brow shot up. How far had she wandered in the few seconds she was out of sight?
“Yeah, that’s where all the players’ gear and stuff get cleaned. Why would you need to use the laundry here?” I leaned back, the familiar leather hugging me.
“Don’t have one where I’m staying, and bringing it here would be so much better than to a laundromat.” Her nose wrinkled.
“What do you have against those?”
I didn’t know why I was bothering with this conversation. We had work to do, and the sooner we got through it, the sooner she’d be out of my hair.
“Oh, I don’t have anything against them.” She ran her fingertip over the spines of the books on my shelves. “But I don’t have the patience to stay there for hours. I feel like less of my underwear would be stolen if I did my laundry here.”
A growl slipped out, and I gripped the edge of my desk. Surprised the wood didn’t dent under my fingertips. “You have your underwear stolen?” Images of brightly colored lace invade my head.
Jesus Christ. Not the time. Not the woman.
“There’s also a chance I just misplace them. That happens to people, too.” Her voice cut through my internal battle.
“No, that doesn’t happen to people.”
She rolled her eyes, picking up an old medal I’d won in college. The buttery yellow of her nails looked soft against the gold.
“Okay, Mr. Know-it-all. I bet there are plenty of people out there who misplace their underwear.” She moved on to a photo of Goldie on her bike. A smile bloomed across her face, a little chuckle slipping out.
She looked comfortable interacting with my space—my kid. Like she’d always done it.
A zap shot through my chest, and I rubbed right over my heart.
The hell is wrong with me?
Thirty-three was young, but I swore every day my body did something new and weird to make me feel old. A few years ago, I was slamming people into the boards and skating away without an issue. Now, if I got up too quickly my back would tweak, and I apparently had chest pains that needed monitoring.
Maybe I’d had too much coffee? Lack of sleep over the last few days had me chugging two to three cups, like I was back in my early twenties.
“Hello, earth to Monroe.” Graciella waved the stupid pom pom of her pen in my face.
I blinked, my brain registering her words. “Sorry, what?”
“Wasn’t sure if you spaced out or were purposely ignoring the question.” She’d sat herself in one of the spare chairs, pen tip pressed to what I was learning was her ever-present notebook. “I asked what you look for in a significant other. I need this for when I’m vetting the applicants.”
I froze.
The question settled in my gut like a rock. I hadn’t thought about what I wanted in a partner since…well, since ever, but especially since Golds was born. Other than an occasional hookup on the road, there hadn’t been anyone in my life.
In our lives.
Graciella snapped her fingers. “Hey, this isn’t an actual matchmaking service. Not that serious. Just name things you like in a woman.”
I wiped the sweat off my hands on my jeans, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “Okay, um, I like…”
I tried my damndest to come up with something, but everything seemed to be associated with her. It had to be because she’d turned my life upside down lately.
So, I did the only logical thing.
“Um. Someone who is quiet, shy, and doesn’t like too much attention,” I said, watching her pen move across the page. “Agreeable. Doesn’t argue back all the time.”
She tucked a few of her short strands behind her ear, drawing my attention to the shape of her face—to how beautiful she was.
“Long hair,” I blurted. “She needs to have long hair. I don’t like short hair.”
For someone who hated lying, I sure was doing a lot of it at the moment.
Graciella’s head popped up, eyes narrowed. Despite their warm brown color, the glare was frigid.
“You would think a woman’s decision about her hairstyle is meant to please you,” she scoffed. Same way my mom would if she’d heard that bullshit line. “Fine, someone with long hair.” She jotted it down, circling it so aggressively I thought she’d tear a hole in the paper.
“Any other archaic requests? Should she only speak when spoken to or have dinner ready when you arrive home?” she asked, smiling sweetly. I read it for what it was—a fuck you, Monroe.
I swallowed, itching to tell her I didn’t want anything on that list.
But that wouldn’t help.
Actually, it would force me to dissect why I didn’t want any of those things. I moved the conversation into safer waters—for both of us.
“I don’t want this person to meet Goldie.”
She rolled her eyes. Probably thought I was being an ass.
“I’m serious, Graciella. I’m in this mess because of my actions.
My daughter doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this, and I won’t have her meeting someone who won’t actually be in her life.
” I caught her gaze, needing her to hear me.
“That’s not fair to her, and my little girl deserves the best. Always. ”
As it was, my daughter didn’t have a mother. There was no way in hell I’d let this fake girlfriend around my kid only for her to disappear at the end of a few months.
“Whoever we pick won’t meet, be photographed with, or be questioned about your daughter. In fact, I’ll make sure there are no mentions of Golden Girl at all in interviews or articles.” Graciella’s tone was so fierce it knocked me on my ass a bit.
I nodded, taken aback by the sincerity in her eyes.
“Oh, and Graciella.” I hesitated. “No falling in love with me.”
She blinked, something flashing in her eyes before she shut it down, covering it up with a smirk.
“Don’t worry, that charming personality of yours would keep anyone at bay.”
“I’m serious,” I pushed. “We both know what happened between Dalton and Ariella, and while I love that for them, I don’t want love. I already have everyone I need in my corner, and I’m not interested in adding someone new.”
The office went silent, other than the discussion of potential Draft pick order filtering through the television speakers.
She’d blanked her face, and it bothered me more than her arguing ever had. I was used to her mouth forming every shape imaginable, but now it sat in a perfect line.
“All right, Monroe.” She nodded. “No falling in love with you.”
My stomach sank.
That was what I’d asked, so why did I not like hearing those words from her mouth?