Page 13 of Pucked In Vegas (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t)

Chapter Ten

Cassie

I wake slowly, cocooned in delicious warmth.

Jackson's arms wrap around me like I'm something precious, something he's afraid I might vanish. His chest rises and falls against my back, his breath tickling my neck.

For a moment, I just let myself feel this—the weight of his arm draped across my waist, his legs tangled with mine, the sheets twisted around us both.

I shouldn't stay. I know that. But I allow myself these stolen minutes to memorize everything about him.

Carefully, I turn in his arms until I'm facing him.

He mumbles something incoherent but doesn't wake, just pulls me closer.

My fingers hover over his chest, then trace the tattoo on his ribs.

Prove Them Wrong . Three simple words inked in black.

What demons is he fighting? Who does he need to prove wrong?

I want to know everything about him. That's the scariest part.

My fingers continue their exploration, trailing over a scar near his shoulder—the kind hockey players get from being slammed into boards. Another mark across his collarbone that looks surgical. His body tells stories I'm afraid to hear.

Because hearing them means acknowledging what I already suspect. What I've been avoiding since I left Iron Ridge and begun my self-imposed path to a life free from my fathers shadow.

Jackson Holt is a hockey player.

All the signs are there, right before my eyes.

I flatten my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my hand. Strong. Steady. Just like him.

My eyes trace the contours of his face. The strong jaw now covered in morning stubble, those unfairly long eyelashes, the lips that were everywhere last night.

God, last night.

The memory, the actual memory that isn't lost in a haze of drunkenness.

His hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world...

I press my thighs together, heat blooming low in my belly.

I could wake him up. Could slide my hand lower, past the ridges of his abs, wrap my fingers around his deliciously big dick and watch those green eyes flutter open with desire.

Instead, I memorize his face. The tiny scar through his left eyebrow. The way his hair sticks up at odd angles. The softness around his mouth when he sleeps.

What would it be like if this were real? If I could wake up like this every morning, tangled in his arms, his body curved protectively around mine?

But that's a fantasy. Because if he's who I think he is, then this— us —is impossible.

I've spent five years building a life outside hockey. Five years proving I'm more than Big Mike's daughter. Five years becoming Cassie Hawthorne, event producer, not Cassie Hawthorne, hockey princess.

And yesterday, standing in that event room, giving orders, working the room—it felt like slipping on an old coat. Comfortable. Familiar.

Terrifying.

Because I was good at it. Because it felt right. Because maybe I've been running from the wrong thing all along.

I carefully extract myself from Jackson's arms, needing space to think. Jackson stirs, his brow furrowing.

"No… Don't go," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep as his hand reaches for me. "Stay."

My heart clenches. Such simple words that make me want to crawl back into his arms and stay there forever.

"Just going to the bathroom," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'll be right back."

He relaxes, sinking back into sleep, and I slip out of bed.

I move into the bathroom and close the door behind me.

The harsh fluorescent light makes me wince after the golden warmth of the bedroom. I move in front of the mirror, and fuck .

My reflection stares back at me. My hair looks like I've been through an electric storm, my lips are so swollen they could qualify for their own zip code, and my neck? Well, the evidence of last night's passion is written all over me like a billboard advertisement for "Had Amazing Sex: Ask Me How!"

I grip the edge of the sink, suddenly unsteady.

What am I doing?

This was supposed to be about annulment papers. I came up here last night to finish it all.

Instead, I've fallen deeper into whatever this is between us.

I splash cold water on my face, hoping it might wash away the confusion clouding my judgment. Water drips down my chin as I reach blindly for a towel.

My fingers brush against something on the counter and when I towel the water off my face, I look down to see a black toiletry bag, partially unzipped. Something dark blue catches my eye, fabric with what might be a logo, but I can't make it out clearly in the dim light.

My hand freezes mid-air.

It's familiar… but it could be anything.

It's sporty. Team gear from college, maybe. Or just athletic wear. But combined with everything else—the scars, his athletic build, his presence at the draft venue yesterday...

My stomach churns with suspicion I don't want to face.

"No," I whisper to my reflection, watching the color drain from my face.

I've been willfully blind because I wanted the fantasy. Wanted to believe Jackson was just some gorgeous stranger who made me feel alive, who saw me as just Cassie… not an extension of my father's legacy.

The fear isn't that he definitely is a hockey player. It's that I might be falling for someone who could destroy everything I've built. Someone who could drag me back into the world I escaped.

I can't take the risk. What if I'm right? What if he's exactly what I think he is? I've worked too hard to build a life outside hockey to gamble it all on a man who might be everything I've run from.

My father's face flashes in my mind. His knowing smirk if he discovers I've fallen for a hockey player.

But I don't even know for sure.

Maybe that's what terrifies me most. The fact that I'm about to destroy something beautiful based on suspicion and fear. Not fact .

"I won't take the chance," I whisper fiercely to my reflection. "I can't."

Part of me wants to storm back into that bedroom and demand answers.

But I know what will happen if I look into those sea-glass eyes again. I'll cave, just like I did last night. And where did that get me?

Right back in his bed, moaning his name and wishing for more.

I pat my face dry, my decision crystallizing with each second.

I need to end this. Now. While I still can.

When I return to the bedroom, Jackson is still sleeping peacefully, one arm stretched across the space where I had been. The annulment papers sit on the nightstand, forgotten in last night's passion.

Not anymore.

I stare at the papers, the blank signature line mocking me.

This is my escape route. The clean break I need.

My hand trembles as I reach for the pen beside them. For a moment, I watch Jackson, his face peaceful in sleep. Last night floods back again. The way he made me feel. The words he said against my ear as he made me feel things I never have before.

But this world isn't real. It can't be.

I perch on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb him, and press the pen to paper. My signature looks shaky, almost to the point of being unrecognizable… like I'm someone else entirely.

Maybe I am.

I place the pen beside the signed papers and arrange them neatly where he'll see them immediately.

No note. No explanation.

What could I possibly say? Thanks for the orgasms?

A strand of hair falls across his forehead. I resist the urge to brush it away, to touch him one last time. If I do, I might not leave.

Instead, I gather my clothes from where they're scattered across the floor—silent evidence of how eagerly we'd undressed each other. I slip into my jeans and sweater, not bothering with my bra. I just need to get out of here.

At the door, I pause, one hand on the handle. I should feel relieved. This is what I wanted… what I came here for. Confirmation of what I thought was true. An end to this mistake.

So why does it feel like I'm making an even bigger one?

For the entire day, I've hurled myself into running this event like it's chocolate during a breakup. I'm an emotional wreck with a Netflix binge on standby the moment I get home tonight.

Every checkbox on my clipboard represents another second I don't have to think about Jackson's face when he wakes up to find nothing but signed annulment papers where I should be.

"The lighting in the southeast corner needs to be adjusted three degrees," I call out to the tech crew without looking up from my tablet. "And tell catering the ice sculptures need to be delivered at exactly 4:15, not 'sometime in the afternoon.'"

The room buzzes around me.

Workers are hanging banners with the NHL logo, sound technicians running last-minute checks, florists arranging elaborate centerpieces in team colors.

I move through it all like a general commanding troops, my heels clicking across the floor.

This is what I'm good at. This is safe.

Numbers, logistics, timelines. Things that follow rules and don't make me feel like my heart is being torn in two different directions.

"Cassie!" Dana's voice cuts through the noise as she approaches, clipboard in hand. "I just did a walkthrough and... wow . Seriously, girl. You've completely transformed this place."

I force my professional smile. "Just doing my job."

"No, this is beyond what we expected. I can see why your father speaks so highly of your abilities."

My stomach twists at the mention of my father. Again. Will it ever end?

"The commissioner's team just called," I say, redirecting. "They'll be arriving fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled."

Dana nods, impressed. "And you've already adjusted for that?"

"VIP entrance is prepped, security has been briefed, and we've rearranged the welcome reception timing."

"You've really outdone yourself here." Dana glances at her watch. "Can you come approve the final promotional materials? They're mounting the main display out the front right now."

I follow her across the room, my mind still spinning with all the Jackson-shaped thoughts I'm desperately trying to lock away.

Workers scurry around us, a choreographed chaos I'd normally find comforting. Right now, though, even the familiar rhythm of event setup feels like it's happening in some parallel universe where I didn't just wake up married to a handsome stranger, and then leave him without even saying goodbye.

Dana weaves through a cluster of audio technicians, and I follow, mentally reviewing my checklist to keep my thoughts from drifting back to this morning—to tangled sheets and Jackson's sleepy smile when he asked me to stay.

"Here we are," Dana says, stopping in front of a massive display being erected near the entrance. "What do you think?"

"It's per—"

And there he is.

Front and center on the enormous poster, like a Greek god who traded his toga for hockey pads, is the jewel of the NHL Draft event's 'top prospects'.

Jackson Holt. The #1 draft pick.

Not just a hockey player. THE hockey player. The crown jewel. The future face of the league.

The man whose bed I just left.

The man whose annulment papers I just signed.

Not Jax, the stranger who made me feel alive in a nightclub. Not the man who whispered against my skin last night that I felt like home.

The entire room tilts. My carefully constructed professional facade doesn't just crack… it shatters completely.

All those suspicions I'd been nursing, all those fears I'd let drive me from his bed this morning... I hadn't just been right.

I'd been catastrophically right.

I didn't just marry a hockey player. I married future hockey royalty.

"Oh god," I whisper, my tablet slipping from suddenly numb fingers.

"Cassie?" Dana touches my arm. "Is the placement okay? We need final approval before the media arrives."

I stare at Jackson's face—those sea-glass eyes looking directly at me from the poster—and feel my world collapse inward.

"Cassie?" Dana repeats. "Yoohoo… About the poster positioning..."

I adjust the hem of my blazer, grateful for the armor of professional attire.

At least on the outside, I look like I have my shit together.

That's what Mia would tell me to do.

To appear like I'm still Cassie Hawthorne, event producer extraordinaire, not the woman who spent last night with her legs wrapped around a soon-to-be NHL rookie.

"It's perfect. Let's get this show on the road."