Page 2

Chapter Two

Jackson

I sprawl across the daybed, one arm slung behind my head, watching Vegas come alive one what might be my last night of freedom.

The Strip transforms below us, lights flickering on one by one like stars being born. It's magic hour, that golden time when everything looks perfect and anything seems possible.

"To Jackson fucking Holt!" Keller raises his beer, sloshing some onto the deck. "First pick. First round. Called it three years ago and I'm calling it again now!"

My two best friends from junior league—Keller and Donovan—are already half in the bag, celebrating like I've already been drafted.

Between them sits Madison, my agent's assistant, who's here with one job this weekend: keep me out of trouble.

No social media disasters.

No arrests.

No headlines.

"It's not official yet," I say, but I can't stop the grin spreading across my face.

Because it is happening.

After years of 5 AM practices, of my dad's disappointment, of proving everyone wrong… I'm here. One week away from the NHL Draft. One week until everything I've bled for, everything I've sacrificed… sleep, normalcy and relationships, crystallizes into reality.

My name is at the top of every analyst's list in the country.

"False modesty doesn't suit you, Holt," Donovan snorts, adjusting his backward cap. "Iron Ridge Icehawks are practically printing your jersey already."

I take a long pull from my beer, letting the cool liquid slide down my throat. The alcohol buzz mingles with adrenaline, creating this perfect, suspended feeling… like I'm flying but haven't started falling yet.

"Well," Madison says, thumbing through her phone. "Their official media account hasn't announced anything, but—"

"But we all know," Keller finishes. He raises his glass again. "Toast to the last vacation where Holt gets to make mistakes!"

I sit up, clinking my bottle against their glasses. "Make? I plan to invent mistakes tonight."

Everyone laughs, but there's a strange tightness in my chest beneath the smile.

Soon, everything changes.

Once my name is called, I'll belong to a team, to a city, to millions of fans.

I'm not just Jackson Holt anymore… I'm property. An investment. A brand.

But that's why I'm here in Vegas. One last party before it's all changed forever.

And tonight? Yeah, tonight is the night I'm just... me.

I set my beer on the edge of the pool and slide into the water, letting the cool liquid embrace me like an old friend. The water laps against my chest as I lean back, propping my elbows on the concrete ledge, and that's when I look across and…

"Shit," I breathe out, a little too loudly.

I can't help but notice the brunette in the cabana across the way. Sunglasses too big for her face, martini in hand, and a smile that makes something stir in my chest.

She catches me looking and doesn't turn away. I raise my beer in a silent toast, hoping she can't see the way my heart rate kicks up.

Because damn, if I'm making a list of last-freedom mistakes to make in Vegas, she'd be right at the top.

She's on her phone, gesturing wildly, her face animated as she talks.

But there's something else there, too. Like she's trying her hardest to hide a sadness that still somehow tugs at her pretty features between smiles.

I lean back in the pool, trying my hardest to ignore her as my friends bicker between themselves.

She orders a drink. Then another. And another.

It's like she's trying to drown the world out, and fuck… I get that. I really get that.

I know the feeling all too well, drinking to quiet the noise.

I did it plenty after games when Dad would pick apart every mistake instead of noticing the three goals I'd scored.

Did it the night I found out he'd pawned Mom's wedding ring—the only thing of hers I had left—to cover gambling debts.

Did it when scouts started showing up and the pressure crushed down so hard I couldn't breathe.

The rink was my escape, but sometimes even ice can't cool the burn of being someone's meal ticket, someone's second chance, someone's redemption story.

Everyone sees Jackson Holt, hockey prodigy.

They see the stats, the highlight reels, the cocky grin. Nobody sees the kid who learned to cook mac and cheese at nine because Dad was "celebrating" at the bar again.

Nobody knows about the nights I'd sneak out to the frozen pond behind our house at 2 AM, shooting pucks until my hands bled, because it was easier than lying awake listening to Dad's drunken promises about how "this time" he'd get it right.

I became good at hockey because I had to.

It wasn't just a dream… it was my only way out.

"Earth to Jax," Donovan waves a hand in front of my face. "You listening?"

"Huh? Yeah, sure."

"He's not," Keller laughs, following my gaze. "He's got draft brain. Or more likely, draft dick."

Madison sighs. "Remember our deal, Jackson. Low profile. Nothing stupid, okay?"

I nod absently, still watching as the blonde continues animatedly talking on the phone. She tucks her legs underneath her, sipping her cocktail, looking out at the same Vegas skyline I was just admiring.

She's fucking gorgeous.

"So I told Coach that his systems were prehistoric, and—" Donovan's story fades into background noise.

The woman adjusts her position, and her sunglasses tumble from her head onto the deck. She doesn't notice, too absorbed in her phone call. And her third cocktail.

I stand up, setting my beer down and pushing up out of the pool.

"Where are you going?" Madison asks, suspicion in her voice as she watches me towel down all too quickly.

"Doing my good deed for the day," I say, tossing the towel down, already moving. "Be right back."

"Jackson—" she starts, but I'm already halfway around the pool.

My heart pounds as I approach.

Up close, she's even more stunning. Ice blue eyes that flash with intelligence, sun-kissed skin that practically glows. She's older than me, maybe in her late-twenties, with a presence that says she's seen some shit and come out stronger.

I pick up her sunglasses, recognizing the designer logo. Expensive taste.

"Excuse me."

She ends her call abruptly when she notices me standing there, those blue eyes widening slightly as they travel down my chest. The heat in her gaze sends blood rushing south, and I'm suddenly very aware of how little my swim trunks hide.

"I think these belong to you," I say, holding out the sunglasses.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes them, and that simple touch sends electricity shooting up my arm.

"Thanks," she says, her voice soft and warm.

I'm frozen for a heartbeat, my hand extended between us like some kind of bridge I'm not sure either of us should cross.

Madison's voice echoes in my head— low profile, nothing stupid —along with a highlight reel of every hockey prodigy who blew their shot before they even got drafted.

One week.

This woman… She's exactly the kind of beautiful distraction that could complicate everything. And for that reason, I should walk away. Should head back to my boys, drink my beer, and keep my head down until draft day.

But there's something about her that pulls at me.

The way she's trying so hard to look like she's got it all together when I can see the cracks. The way she knocked back those drinks like she's trying to drown something. The slight tremble in her fingers when she took the sunglasses.

I watch her smile up at me, this slow curve of her lips that makes my chest tight. She's waiting for me to say something more, to make a move.

My boys are hollering something from across the pool deck, but their voices fade to background noise. Madison is probably having a coronary watching me right now.

Fuck it.

I'm not asking for her life story. Not asking for anything that'll end up splashed across social media in a months time.

Just a name. Just a moment of being twenty-two and alive in Vegas with a beautiful woman looking at me like I'm more than just a hockey stick with legs.

"I'm Jax."

I don't add the rest. Don't tell her I'm Jackson Holt, top NHL prospect. Don't mention the draft or Iron Ridge or any of it.

For once, I just want to be a guy meeting a girl at a pool, not a walking highlight reel with expectations strapped to his back.

She smiles. This time it's a real smile that finally reaches her eyes… and wow. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

She takes my hand without letting go. "Nice to meet you, Jax ."

Her collar shifts as she leans forward, the oversized shirt gaping just enough to reveal the soft curve of her cleavage. Plentiful cleavage.

She gestures to the empty chair beside her, a casual flick of her wrist that somehow manages to be both dismissive and inviting.

"You can sit... if you're not going to sell me anything."

I drop into the chair, stretching my legs out and crossing them at the ankles.

"Not selling a thing," I promise, looking sideways while trying to hardest to be discreet.

She's got her legs stretched out, long and smooth and bare. One knee bent. The golden afternoon light catches on her skin, making it glow like honey.

I try not to stare and absolutely fail.

"I've had enough sales pitches this week to last a lifetime." She takes another sip of her drink, and I notice the slight flush on her cheeks, the relaxed set of her shoulders.

She's drunk enough to be warm and loose, but not drunk enough to be sloppy.

It's the perfect amount.

I wonder what she'd be like completely uninhibited. What would it take to make her really smile? Not the polite one she's giving me now, but the kind that's real… authentic. One that reaches her eyes and shows all her teeth.

"You here for a bachelor party or just like to play pretend like everyone else around here?" she asks, gesturing toward my friends with her martini glass.

I grin, leaning back in my chair. "Um… kind of both."

Her eyebrows lift. "That sounds ominous."

"It's my last weekend of freedom."

"What, are you joining a cult?" She rolls her eyes. "Or worse, a sports team?"