Page 6

Chapter Four

Jackson

T he first thing I register when I wake up, is that my head weighs approximately sixteen thousand pounds.

The pain arrives in waves.

First, a serious throbbing behind my eyes, then it's pulsing at my temples, drilling into the base of my skull. I've taken hits on the ice that hurt less than this hangover.

Light filters through a crack in the blackout curtains, slicing across my face like a laser beam designed specifically for torture. I groan, rolling away from it. My tongue feels like sandpaper glued to the roof of my mouth.

Water. I need water.

I reach blindly toward the nightstand, my hand connecting with something solid that topples over with a plastic clatter. What the—?

Forcing one eye open, I squint at a miniature Elvis figurine now lying on its side, one rhinestoned arm raised in eternal blessing.

Where the hell did that come from?

I try to sit up and immediately regret it. The room spins like I'm doing drills on bad ice. When the world stabilizes, I notice the glitter… fucking glitter.

It's everywhere.

Coating my forearms in a fine, sparkly dust that catches the light. Gold and silver specks trail up to my shoulders and probably beyond. My chest looks like someone tried to frost a cupcake with body shimmer.

My pants are halfway down my thighs, belt undone, one leg completely free while the other remains trapped in expensive denim. I'm not wearing a shirt. Or socks.

Just... glitter. Fucking glitter!

A soft snore breaks the silence.

I freeze, then slowly turn my head.

Holy shit.

She's here. Cassie. Face-down in my bed, platinum hair splayed across my pillow like she's in a shampoo commercial. One leg is kicked out from under the sheets, and from what I can tell, she's just as naked as I am.

Her breathing is deep and even, completely unbothered by the nuclear war happening in my skull.

Something glints on her hand—her left hand—resting near her face.

A ring.

A gold band.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

I sit bolt upright, ignoring the sledgehammer to my brain. My heart pounds as I frantically check my own hand.

There it is. Matching gold band. Slightly too big, but definitely real.

"What the fuck," I whisper, staring at my hand like it belongs to someone else. "What the actual fuck."

Fragments of last night flash through my mind. Tequila shots at the club, dirty dancing with a boner, her lips on mine, stumbling down the Strip, a chapel with neon lights, an Elvis impersonator with a surprisingly good voice...

A piece of paper folded on the corner of the nightstand, slightly crumpled, glitter-streaked, and official looking.

I pull it closer.

TEMPORARY MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE

Cassie Hawthorne & Jackson Holt

Ceremony performed at: Hitched in a Hurry – Open Hearts, Open 24/7

Officiated by: Reverend Elvis “Blue Suede” Michaels

Beside it, a Polaroid is half-stuck to the surface by what I sincerely hope is champagne.

We’re both in it. I’m shirtless, grinning like an idiot, holding her bridal-style. She’s laughing, veil askew, throwing up peace signs. Elvis is mid-snap-finger in the background.

And just below the photograph is a neon-colored flyer that reads:

FREE BUFFET brEAKFAST FOR NEWLYWEDS!

Served until 11am.

Just show your certificate and rings!

My entire career flashes before my eyes.

Madison is going to murder me. The draft is in five days. Five.

In five days, I’m supposed to be standing on a stage in a suit, holding a jersey with my name on the back, and shaking the hand of a GM who thinks I’m a safe bet. A professional. A brand for generations to come.

And now?

Now I’m a disaster. A glitter covered disaster.

I force myself to stand, legs unsteady beneath me. The room tilts sideways before settling, and I grab the wall for support.

Evidence of last night's chaos surrounds me like a crime scene.

On the dresser, a half-unwrapped box of Ring Pops sits next to a champagne bottle with lipstick on the rim. Her shade, bright red. A feather boa in electric pink is draped over the TV, and one of her stilettos dangles precariously from the corner of the screen.

The room smells like sweat, tequila, and… frosting? No, that’s glitter. That’s what glitter smells like.

I look down again at the damn certificate. I can’t even bring myself to touch it. My name. Her name. Permanent black ink stamped like it’s no big deal.

Cassie Hawthorne.

I married her. Actually married her. And yeah, okay—we were drunk. But not blackout. I remember it.

Not every detail. But enough.

Her breathless laugh as she pulled me into the chapel. The way she nearly fell out of her dress while trying to high-five Elvis. Her hand trembling just slightly when she slid that gold ring on my finger. The exact moment her mouth met mine right after the “I now pronounce you...”

And then—

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, rubbing my face.

I stumble to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot, hair sticking up in every direction. The guy in the mirror looks like he just torched a multi-million dollar career with one tequila-soaked mistake.

Shit . Did my father wake up like this every day? Did he live his entire sorry life like this?

When I return to the bedroom, I grab the Polaroid from the nightstand. My thumb brushes over Cassie's face, her smile wide and uninhibited. Something flashes in my mind—

Cassie sitting on the bathroom counter in that tiny chapel, her legs wrapped around my waist. The black dress hiked up to her hips, revealing lace panties underneath.

"We shouldn't," I whispered against her neck, but my hands were already sliding up her thighs.

"We absolutely should," she breathed back, nipping at my lower lip.

Her fingers worked my belt, then my zipper. I groaned when she wrapped her hand around me, stroking firmly.

"I want you," she whispered, her ice-blue eyes locked on mine. "Right now."

A sharp knock rattled the door. "You kids decent? Elvis is ready!"

The memory dissolves, leaving me hard and disoriented in the middle of the hotel room.

I've worked my entire life for what's coming. Every 5 AM practice. Every bruise. Every night I cooked dinner while Dad passed out on the couch. Every scout I impressed. Every promise I made to myself when I left that shitty apartment behind.

All of it—every sacrifice, every dream—could implode because I couldn't keep it in my pants for one more week.

This isn't just a hookup. This is a fucking disaster.

The press would devour this story: Top NHL prospect marries random woman in Vegas days before draft .

Teams don't want players with impulse control issues. They don't want liability. They want professionals.

My stomach drops as I look at Cassie's sleeping form. She's beautiful, yes. But she's also a stranger. A stranger I'm now legally bound to.

I stare at Cassie, trying to decide how to wake her. The beautiful stranger I married. In Vegas. Right before the NHL draft that will change my life.

She stirs, groaning as consciousness finds her. One eye cracks open, then slams shut against the morning light.

"Why does my mouth taste like regret and cake frosting?" she mumbles into the pillow.

"Funny story about that," I start, clearing my throat. "So... last night was..."

She sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest, blinking rapidly. Her platinum hair stands in wild directions, mascara smudged beneath those ice-blue eyes. Even hungover, she's gorgeous.

"Please tell me we just had wild sex and I can leave now," she whispers.

I hold up the marriage certificate. "Not exactly."

Her eyes widen, darting between my face and the paper. "No. No, no, no."

"Yeah."

"Oh my god, I'm married." She grabs the certificate, staring at our names. "Oh my god, I had sex with a stranger."

"About that—"

Her head snaps up. "Oh my god, I married a stranger I slept with who might be a stripper. Or an actor. Or both."

"I'm not a stripper," I clarify, running a hand through my hair. "And I don't think we actually—"

"This could ruin my career." She presses her palms against her temples. "My dad will literally drop dead."

I try to look calm despite my internal panic. "Look, we'll get it annulled. No big deal."

"No big deal?" She laughs hysterically. "We need to get this undone before the world finds out and my dad starts throwing pucks at people."

That makes me pause. "Pucks?"

"Don't ask," she mutters, scanning the floor for her clothes.

"Yeah... well... not ideal for me either," I say, watching her scramble around.

Her freak-out is next-level, and I’d chalk it up to the hangover… except for that one word. Pucks. Not a common choice. Unless you're someone who knows hockey.

Or worse… lives it.

And her dad? She said he’d drop dead.

Who the hell is her dad?

She yanks her dress from under the bed. "Did we even...you know?"

I raise an eyebrow, some of my confidence returning despite the disaster around us. "I don't think so. If we had sex, that's something you would definitely remember."

"Wow. The ego on you." She rolls her eyes but can't hide a slight smirk. "I really wasn't thinking straight, was I?"

"I'm just saying—"

"Stop talking." She struggles into her dress. "I need to process this without your..." She gestures vaguely at my bare chest. "…everything."

"I'll handle it," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "The annulment."

"You better." She finds one heel, then the other. "I have enough problems without being Mrs... wait, what's your last name?"

"Holt," I answer automatically. "Jackson Holt."

She blinks. “ Holt …”

Something flickers in her expression. Like the name tickles the back of her brain, but then she shrugs it off and grabs her heels.

"Well, Mr. Holt, this has been... memorable." She continues gathering her things. "Congratulations on your new wife. Hope she’s worth the annulment paperwork."

She storms out in a blur of glitter and indignation, muttering something about being a stupid girl and needing to get her life back together.

And I just sit there, staring at the polaroid in my hand, wondering who the hell she is… and if I'm ever going to see her again.