Monroe
FIFTEEN
HE’S ON A DATE WITH SOMEONE ELSE BUT CAN ONLY THINK ABOUT HER >>>.
Graciella:
DON’T GRUNT
Graciella:
Make sure you don’t frown the whole time. There’s going to be ppl snapping photos.
Graciella:
How’s it going?! It’s been like an hour. This is message number 3 already…
Graciella:
Are you ignoring me?!?!
Monroe:
The Stanley Cup sat in the middle of a banquet table ten feet away, gleaming under the restaurant's low lights. It looked like they’d taken the entire produce section of a store and arranged it on the table around the trophy.
Goldie would’ve called it a giant “snacky plate.” Only, instead of cheese sticks and Goldfish, it was Munster and grainy crackers.
I’d have preferred the Goldfish.
Soft music played through the speakers, serving as background noise amid the murmur of conversations and laughter from groups of well-connected sports figures mingling throughout the room.
Like we were supposed to be.
Instead, Itzel and I stood off to the side at a table tucked between two columns, far enough from the main crowd to avoid being pulled into their conversations. We probably looked as awkward as we felt.
As I felt.
“So…” Itzel started, smoothing her hands down the front of her pale-yellow dress. Whatever the fabric was, it gleamed in the light flickering off the lone candle on the cocktail table. “Do you do this a lot? These events?”
I shifted my weight for what felt like the hundredth time in thirty minutes, my dress shoes sticking slightly to the black-and-white marble floors. I rested my elbow and lowball glass on the black tablecloth. “Nope.”
Her face fell at my short answer, eyes dropping to where she wrung her folded hands. “Oh. Okay then.”
The hair on my jaw scraped the palm of my hand as I rubbed it across my face. Fuck. I was ruining this. Graciella would tear me apart for grunting single syllables. A chuckle slipped out, cutting through the quiet tension.
“What?” There was a timid edge to Itzel’s voice. “Do I have something on my face?” She lifted a hand, brushing at her cheek, catching on a wavy strand of hair she’d left out of the clip thing holding the rest of her hair at the back of her head.
I shook my head. “No, sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at the fact that if Graciella were here, she’d chew me out for my behavior.”
Her smile was soft. Itzel was quiet—shy.
In the short time I’d been around her, that’d become painfully obvious.
She wasn’t filling the silence with incessant ramblings or demanding I hold up my end of a conversation.
She wasn’t Graciella.
And that seemed to be the problem.
“She did say that if you were a jerk, I was supposed to tell her so she could beat you into shape with Monica.” She held up her hands. “Her words, not mine.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. She showed up an hour early to make sure I didn’t screw this up in front of half the league.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over us again.
I broke eye contact, focusing on the table a few feet away. Their glasses clinked, and their heads tipped back in easy laughter. It might not have been directed at us, but it felt like it. It felt like everyone knew we were faking this.
“I didn’t even know this place existed. Did you?” Itzel asked, scanning the room. A little laugh slipped out. “Not that I go out much. That’s Chella. She’s got a whole list of places like this she likes to go eat at.”
“Chella?”
“Sorry, that’s what I call Graciella.”
“What do you mean she’s got an entire list of these things?” I couldn’t keep my damn thoughts to myself, it seemed.
Itzel waved her hand not clutching a wine stem. “She’s a romantic. Loves all of this—restaurants, events, making things feel special. She’s got lists for everything.”
Like the things she asked other men to fix for her…
My chest twisted, my grip tightening around the glass, the condensation cool against my heated palm. I wanted to press it against the back of my neck.
“But she says she hates love,” Itzel said with a shrug, bringing the glass to her lips.
“That doesn’t make a lick of sense.” I dragged a hand along the back of my neck, eyes scanning the room without really seeing it. Hating the thought of someone doing all that for her.
Someone who wasn’t me.
“She thinks love doesn’t exist for her. That there’s no one who cares enough to stick around.” She frowned, taking a bigger sip this time. “Thinks she’s better off on her own.”
I had nothing to say.
How could I? Love and romance weren’t remotely on my radar. Or hadn’t been. Hell, in a lot of ways, I agreed with her. Why let someone in? Why bother with all that?
A firm hand clamped my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Coach Monroe.” A man in a tailored suit extended his hand.
“Hell of a piece that dropped this morning. Didn’t know you were involved with the Women’s Sports Foundation.
Good look. And the visit with the college team?
My daughter plays, so I know stuff like that matters,” he said, giving a firm shake.
I nodded, not used to the attention. “Got one of those, too,” I said, smiling at the thought of Goldie out on the ice with her pink gear. “Well, she’s five, so not quite the same.”
“Being a girl dad, you get it,” said the man with a smile. “Look forward to what you do this next season. And congrats on the win.” He tipped his head toward the Cup before disappearing into the crowd.
“That was nice of you to do all those things,” Itzel said, sidestepping closer as someone walked through with a hors d'oeuvres tray.
“Graciella arranged for all of it.” My fingers itched to text her a thank you, feeling bad that the only response I’d given her was a middle finger.
“She’s good at what she does.”
“I’m starting to realize that,” I said, then changed the subject. “How did you two become friends?”
Itzel ran a finger up and down the stem of her glass, candlelight casting shadows on her face.
“We’ve all been friends since elementary—me, Graciella, and Ariella.
Grew up down the street from each other.
We’d hang out all the time, till Chella left at eighteen.
Then Ari last year.” She paused. “But now they’re back, and it’s like old times. ”
“Was she always this way?”
Fuck. I needed to stop talking about her.
Her finger paused midstroke, and she bit the corner of her lip.
“She hasn’t always been like this. It’s not my story to tell, but…
she spent years being what someone else wanted.
” Her eyes met mine. “Graciella is fierce, loyal, and the hardest-working person I know. Everything she has is because she fought for it. You’re lucky to have her on your side. ”
My mouth fell open, my brain and my tongue struggling to agree on a response. A server squeezed behind me, muttering an apology as champagne flutes clinked together near my shoulder.
“We should probably mingle,” Itzel said, when they were out of earshot, nodding toward the middle of the room. “I think we’re supposed to be making good impressions on these people.”
We were.
“Yeah, guess you’re right.” I drained the rest of the amber liquid. Hoping it would burn away the thought that I had the wrong woman at my side.
We steered clear of all things Graciella for the rest of the event. But it wasn’t because we were having a flowing conversation and getting to know one another. More like we had an unspoken agreement to shake hands and kiss ass with industry people.
I was shit at both.
Now the ride home was quiet. Too damn quiet.
Nothing but some muted song playing through the cab of my truck. My fingers itched to turn it up, but that felt like admitting how uncomfortable I was.
I’d told Graciella that was what I looked for in a romantic partner…yet the silence permeating the air was too much for me to handle.
“Are you sure you’re okay doing this?” I asked Itzel, keeping my focus trained on the traffic ahead. A long line of red brake lights and flickering turn signals.
“Huh? Doing what?”
“This.” I motioned between us. “Pretending to date me. Being in the public eye for a relationship that isn’t real.
” The truck idled at a red light, the low rumble of the engine adding to the radio.
I took the chance to look at her. The dim light from the dashboard and streetlamps barely illuminated her frown.
“It’s not real, Itzel. It can’t be real, so if there’s any part of you that was hoping to fall in love—”
“I won’t.” She said it with more force than I’d experienced from her all night.
“Chella told me the rules, and even if that hadn’t been one of them, I wouldn’t fall for you.
That’s not why I’m doing this, anyway.” She turned away, staring out the passenger window at the line of cars crawling forward.
Shit.
The leather steering wheel creaked under my fingers. My jaw locked so tight it ached.
“Look, I didn’t mean to offend you or to insinuate that you’d even be interested in me like that, it’s just…” I paused, rubbing a hand down my face. “I’ve had a lot of people during my career try to take advantage of me. And I’m—”
“Apology accepted.”
The lump in my throat subsided.
Curiosity ate at me. From the little I knew about Itzel, being in the public eye seemed like the opposite of anything she’d be interested in.
“Can I ask you why you are doing this, then?”
“Well, it pays well,” she said with a chuckle before sighing. The blue glow from the dash highlighted how her shoulders curled inward as she studied her hands. “But the real reason is that I am kind of hoping…”
Seconds ticked by.
“You were hoping?”
“There’s someone who’s never noticed me while I was available, and I was kind of hoping he’ll notice me now that I’m not,” she rushed out, head tucked so low her chin was bound to leave an indentation on her sternum.
“You took the job to make someone jealous?”
She nodded, cheeks flame red. “I know it’s stupid. Do you think I’m pathetic for wanting someone who doesn’t want me?”
Hell, I was the pathetic one. The entire night, all I could picture was glossy lips that loved to tell me off and that soft, tawny skin that constantly tempted me to touch it.
Graciella stole my attention even when not around.
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” I said finally, glancing at her.
“And I don’t think you’re pathetic. Men are stupid.
Look, I know nothing about him. But not making a move on you may have nothing to do with not liking you.
Sometimes guys have their own hang-ups on shit that gets in their way, and they need to be shown what they really want. ”
“Do you?” she asked, as my truck rolled up to a row of well-kept older homes with their porch lights shining bright.
“I just mean, I’m sure you can get a girlfriend—like a real one.
So the fact that we’re doing this must be because you don’t want one.
” She waited for my answer, hand poised on the handle.
“It’s complicated,” I grunted, memories of Graciella’s back pressed against my chest invading my mind.
Itzel nodded, pushing the car door open. The cab light flicked on, revealing the sincerity in her eyes. “Well, maybe this will show you what you really want, too.”
That thought lingered the whole drive home.