Page 17

Chapter Thirteen

Jackson

I stand behind the curtain, thirty seconds from being called the number one draft pick in the NHL, and all I can think about is how I lost her.

The cameras are ready. The Icehawks are ready. Hell, I’m supposed to be ready.

But I’m not.

"Two minutes, Mr. Holt." A production assistant with a headset pokes her head behind the curtain. "They'll call you after the commissioner's final words."

I nod, adjusting my tie for the tenth time. My fingers brush against the inside pocket of my jacket, where Cassie's annulment papers still sit, folded and unsigned, worn at the creases from being opened and closed so many times.

This should be the best night of my life.

Everything I've worked for since I was five years old, shooting pucks in the backyard while Dad yelled "again!" from the porch, beer in hand.

Everything I promised myself I'd achieve when I left home at seventeen, determined to be more than just another hockey story gone wrong.

But all I can think about is Cassie.

I can’t stop replaying it… her walking away from me.

Over and over in my head like a highlight reel gone wrong.

Her saying it was all a mistake, even though her body said the opposite.

Even though her lips trembled when she told me we couldn’t do this.

Even though she looked at me like she already knew she loved me and it scared the hell out of her.

I stand frozen behind the curtain as the realization crashes over me like a blindside hit.

I love her.

I'm in love with Cassie Hawthorne.

Not just attracted to her. Not just fascinated by her. Not just eager to see where this weird marriage could go.

I love her.

The truth of it settles in my chest, warm and terrifying and absolute. It's not a feeling I've ever had before. Such certainty, a goddamn bone-deep knowing that someone matters more than the game, more than the contract, more than everything I've spent my life chasing.

My hands start to shake.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out the commissioner's voice booming through the speakers. The crowd's anticipation feels distant, completely irrelevant right now.

How did this happen so fast? We barely know each other. We met at a pool, got drunk, made the most impulsive decision possible, and spent one night together.

That's not enough time to fall in love.

Except it was.

It is.

And I let her walk away. I let her sign those papers. I let her believe this was just some Vegas mistake.

"Thirty seconds, Mr. Holt."

I reach for the annulment papers in my pocket, my fingers closing around them as everything suddenly becomes clear.

“You good, kid?”

Blake’s voice cuts through the fog, and I realize I’ve been pacing in a ten-foot circle like a lunatic.

“Yeah,” I lie.

He studies me with that annoying captain intuition he has. Doesn’t push, though. Just gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. “Deep breath. This is your moment.”

My moment.

Right.

The emcee's voice booms from the stage. “And now, with the final announcement of the night…"

The backstage crew parts, nodding for me to move into position.

“You’re up,” Blake says.

The call comes.

"… The moment we've all been waiting for... Iron Ridge Icehawks are proud to select, as the first overall pick in this year's NHL Draft... JACKSON HOLT!"

The curtain slowly peels away, revealing the stage inch by inch.

Harsh spotlights slam into my face, forcing me to squint as white-hot beams pierce my vision.

From beyond the blinding glare, a wall of sound crashes over me.

Hundreds of voices merging into one thunderous wave as the audience erupts, their applause and cheers vibrating through the floorboards beneath my feet.

I step onto the stage, but in that instant, the script I've rehearsed a hundred times evaporates from my mind.

Madison is going to kill me.

The lights are blinding. The noise deafening.

Every NHL Draft I've ever watched on TV has prepared me for this moment. The handshake with the commissioner, the jersey presentation with Big Mike, the photo op of us smiling that will be replayed for years.

I go through the motions. Shake hands. Smile. Accept the green and gray Iron Ridge jersey with my name already emblazoned across the back.

"Congratulations, son," Big Mike says, slapping me on the back.

Son? If only he knew.

When the cameras stop clicking and Big Mike and the commissioner steps back, gesturing toward the microphone for my prepared statement, something inside me shifts.

I adjust the height of the microphone, and when I look up, in the wings… right at the back of the room, right below the neon green exit sign… I spot her.

Cassie.

Her arms are crossed over her chest, face unreadable—except for the glint of a tear sliding down her cheek.

I grip the edge of the microphone, steadying my voice even as my pulse slams against my ribs.

“I had a speech,” I start, eyes locked on hers. “A good one, apparently. Practiced it all week.”

There’s a soft ripple of laughter from the audience.

“But I’m not reading it. Before I can be Iron Ridge's future, I need to fix my past."

At the side of the stage, Madison shifts on her feet, probably already halfway to a coronary. Big Mike tilts his head behind me, confusion flickering across his face.

I feel every perfectly placed camera in the room zoom in on my face, like the entire world just sat up and started paying attention.

“A week ago, I came to Vegas to celebrate the draft,” I say, “and ended up in a chapel at three a.m., marrying a woman who looked at me like she saw through every layer I’ve ever tried to hide behind.”

The laughter cuts out.

“She was stubborn. Sharp as hell. Wore this tiny dress like she knew exactly what kind of trouble she was about to cause.”

I see Cassie’s lips part with a slight chuckle. Her hands fall away from her chest.

“And yeah, we were drunk. We were reckless. But you know what…" I pause, letting the silence of the room surround me. "I’d do it all over again. Every minute of it. Because that night gave me her .”

I raise my arm, pointing straight at Cassie's tear-streaked face at the back of the room.

"That woman right there—Cassie Hawthorne—is my wife. My accidental wife. My perfectly accidental wife."

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Camera flashes explode like lightning. Behind me, I hear what sounds like Big Mike choking on air.

"I know what you're thinking. This kid's throwing away everything he's worked for. And maybe I am." I pull the unsigned annulment papers from my jacket pocket and hold them up. "These have been burning a hole in my pocket all day."

The entire ballroom has gone silent except for the frantic clicking of cameras.

"Cassie thinks we're a mistake. That what happened in Vegas should stay there." I crumple the papers in my fist. "But the best moments of my life have been with her. Even if it was just for one night."

I turn slightly, looking directly at Big Mike, whose face has cycled through at least five different shades of red.

"So, Mr. Hawthorne…does this void that fancy new contract you were about to offer me?" I flash him a smile that's equal parts terrified and defiant. "Because I need to be clear about something: I love your daughter. And that means more to me than any deal, any signing bonus, any jersey."

I turn back to Cassie, who hasn't moved an inch, frozen under the exit sign's green glow.

"I've spent my entire life proving people wrong. Proving I was good enough. Worthy enough." My voice cracks. "But with you, Cassie, I didn't have to prove anything. You saw me. Just me. Not the prospect, not the draft pick. Just Jax."

I take a deep breath.

"I love you, Cassie Hawthorne. And I don't care if it costs me everything I've worked for. Some things are worth the risk."

The silence in the room is deafening. A thousand eyes ping-pong between me, Cassie, and Big Mike.

"So what do you say, wife? Want to give this hockey player a real shot?"

The crowd holds its breath, a thousand people suspended in time as I stand there, heart in my hands, waiting.

Then… Cassie pushes through the crowd, her hair catching the spotlight as she weaves between executives and media. She's moving fast, determination in every step, the same way she commanded this event room today, the same way she commands every room.

She climbs the steps to the stage, and before I can process what's happening, she launches herself into my arms.

I catch her as her legs wrap around my waist.

"You're insane," she whispers against my lips, but there's something like wonder in her voice.

"Insane for you."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.

"You just told the world you married Big Mike's daughter. You're crazy!"

I brush a strand of hair from her face, aware of every camera capturing this moment but somehow not caring at all.

"Correction. I told the world I married the only woman who ever made me feel like more than a jersey."

The crowd erupts in cheers and hollers. Someone wolf-whistles from the back. Through the chaos, I catch sight of Big Mike looking like he might need medical attention, his face cycling between shock and something that might be pride.

I don't know what this means for my place in the team, but right now, I don't fucking care.

Connor appears from nowhere, sliding a chair under Big Mike just as his knees buckle. Blake's appeared on stage, leading the room in a round of applause, holding my Iron Ridge Icehawks jersey up as the room erupts.

Cassie presses her forehead against mine, her blue eyes swimming with tears. It's a look of joy, of pure relief.

"I'm tired, Jax," she admits, her voice just for me. "Tired of pretending. Of running."

Her fingers thread through my hair as the cameras continue to flash around us.

"I've been miserable. And I think I finally figured out why."

Her thumbs trace my cheekbones, and I feel like I'm floating despite the weight of her in my arms.

"I spent so long being Big Mike's daughter that I forgot who Cassie was. I built this whole life trying to prove I wasn't just some hockey princess, but I ended up with nothing. No job. No home. Nothing. Nothing that felt real."

The microphone picks up every word, but she doesn't seem to care anymore. Her eyes never leave mine.

"Then I met this ridiculously hot guy by a pool, and for one night, I wasn't running. I wasn't planning. I wasn't calculating my next move. I was just... me."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "You were perfect."

"I was drunk," she corrects with a cute smirk I'll never tire of adoring. "But I was also… happy . For the first time in forever, I felt like I belonged exactly where I was."

I tighten my grip on her thighs, keeping her steady against me. "And where's that?"

"With you, you idiot," she says, her voice breaking. "Do you have any idea what you just did? What this means for your career?"

"I know exactly what it means." I reach for her hand, relieved when she doesn't pull away. Finally. "It means I choose you. Over everything. Every time."

"That's..." She shakes her head, tears threatening. "That's a terrible career move."

"Good thing I've got the body to be a decent underwear model. Or…"

"...Or a cult leader," Cassie finishes, a grin spreading across her face. "Remember?"

I laugh, the memory hitting me like one of those shots of tequila. "Yes. You asked if I was joining a cult or a sports team."

"And I said I hoped it wasn't sports because—"

"—because you hate sweaty men," I finish for her.

The crowd around us laughs, though they have no idea what we're talking about. This moment is just for us, even with a thousand people watching.

"I still hate sweaty men," she says, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck. "But I might make an exception for you."

"How generous."

I set her down gently, my hands still at her waist. The crowd has fallen silent again, hanging on our every word.

"So what are you saying, Cassie Hawthorne?" I can't help the hope that creeps into my voice. "Or is it Cassie Holt now?"

She looks up at me, those ice-blue eyes melting.

"I'm saying I want to try. For real this time. No running away, no hiding who we are." She glances over at her father, who's watching us with an unreadable expression. "Even if it means dealing with my dad throwing pucks at your head during family dinners."

"Well… I'm a hockey player. Luckily I'm pretty good at dodging," I remind her, pulling her closer. "Cassie… I don't care where we live, what your last name is, or what team I play for," I tell her, cupping her face in my hands. "You're it for me, baby."

"You're such a sap," she whispers, but her eyes are shining. "But you're my sap."

When I kiss her, it's nothing like our drunken Vegas kiss. Nothing like our desperate, lustful hotel room encounters.

It's a beginning. A promise. A declaration.

From the crowd, I hear Keller's distinctive whistle and Donovan's booming "THAT'S OUR BOY!" They're standing on their chairs, pumping their fists in the air like they just won the Stanley Cup.

In this moment, on stage for the world to see, our entire future stretches before us.

It's unwritten, messy and uncertain.

But one thing I know for sure…

Who needs a fairy tale... when Vegas gives you the best damn happily ever after you never saw coming?