Page 7

Chapter Five

Cassie

I slam the door of my rental apartment, kick off my heels, and slide down against the wall. My head pounds like someone's using my brain for batting practice.

"What. Have. I. Done."

The room swims into focus. Depressing beige walls, a sad excuse for a kitchenette, and my half-unpacked suitcase vomiting clothes across the floor.

Home sweet temporary home.

I drag myself to the bathroom, gasping at my reflection. Mascara tracks down my cheeks. There's glitter… everywhere.

And is that... cake frosting in my hair?

"Mrs. Jackson Holt," I whisper, testing the name. It sounds ridiculous, but even now, I feel like I should know that name.

I grab a washcloth, and start scrubbing glitter off my skin like it’s evidence from a crime scene. Of course, it only spreads. I now have a glittery clavicle and a shimmering knee.

I drop the cloth in the sink and brace both hands on the counter.

Did I sleep with him?

I still don’t know. All I know is the way he looked at me… like I was something worth chasing. Something wild and bright and temporarily his .

God, I let a man with movie-star abs put a ring on my finger.

Cassie Holt.

What the hell is wrong with me?

After a scalding shower that does nothing to wash away my shame, I wrap myself in a towel and open my laptop. Maybe some good news will distract me from the cheap gold band I've stuffed into my makeup bag.

One new email.

Dear Ms. Hawthorne, Thank you for your interest in the Senior Events Coordinator position...

I don't need to read further. The "unfortunately" is implied already.

"Starting the day with a new rejection," I announce to the empty room. "Fantastic."

I flop onto the bed, smearing yesterday’s makeup across the pillowcase. My laptop slides off my legs and onto the coffee table with a dull thud.

"I'm competent. I have experience . I have a LinkedIn photo where I'm not even drunk." I scrub at a patch of glitter that's still on my thigh. "And now I have a husband. Perfect."

My stomach growls. I reach for the plate on the nightstand, picking at cold fries while memories from last night flash through my mind.

His hands on my waist.

His mouth on my neck.

The chapel bathroom, his fingers sliding up my thigh...

"Stop it," I mutter, dropping a fry. "Jackson Holt is a complication you don't need."

I haven't Googled him yet. I can't .

If I Google him and find out he's some underwear model or, god forbid, a professional TikToker, I might never recover.

I'm better off to pretend it never happened. Focus on the comeback. Find a job. Any job.

My phone buzzes from somewhere in my purse. I dig it out, wincing when I see Mia's name and picture on the screen.

I take a deep breath and answer. Time to face the shame.

"Knew it. You look like roadkill." Mia's face fills my phone screen, her skin covered in a green clay mask that cracks when she smiles. "Glittery roadkill."

I burrow deeper under my blanket, phone propped against a pillow. "Thanks. Love you too."

"So..." Mia sips from an oversized mug, eyebrows wiggling. "Tell me about Mr. Tall, Tanned, and Too-Hot-to-Be-Straight.”

I squint at her. “Who?”

“Don’t ‘who’ me. The guy from last night. The one with the abs and the jawline and the arms. You know... The human thirst trap .”

I try to play it cool. “It was just a mild flirtation. Some club dancing. That’s it.”

"Girl, you sent us PICTURES." She taps at the screen, sending through a series of blurry snapshots that I've sent last night. “You sent them to the group chat. Along with GIFs, Cassie. GIFs. ”

My stomach drops as I swipe through the pictures. I've sent selfies of me in the club, dancing with Jackson. Another of us kissing outside the chapel. One with Elvis.

Oh god.

"Oh." My voice sounds tiny. "So... I may have gotten married."

Mia makes a sound like a goose being strangled, then collapses sideways onto her couch in a fit of laughter. The screen bounces as she wheezes into a throw pillow.

"It's not funny," I groan, pulling the blanket over my head completely.

"You're right." Her voice is muffled by the pillow. She lifts her face, tears streaming down her cheeks, creating rivulets in her cracking face mask. "It's hysterical ."

"There's a certificate. Which, by the way, also has glitter on it."

“Jesus Christ.” She’s still wheezing. “Is it weird that I’m more impressed than concerned?”

“I married a man I don’t even know.” My voice rises, cracking. “I didn’t Google him, Mia. What if he’s a magician? Or a bitcoin bro? Oh my God… what if he’s a flat-earther ?”

“Girl, if that man’s a flat-earther, I’ll personally eat a globe.”

“Shit… I let him touch my thighs.” I clutch my forehead.

Mia wipes her eyes, smudging green clay across her cheekbone. "God, I love Vegas."

I laugh too. Or cry. Or both. It’s hard to tell with the emotional whiplash I'm experiencing right now.

Mia wipes her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Okay, okay. Breathe. You’ll fix this. You always do. You’re like a glitter-covered cockroach. Totally unkillable.”

“Thanks,” I say flatly.

“I mean that with love.”

A giggle escapes, then another, until I'm laughing through tears.

"What am I going to do, Mia? I married a stranger. A hot, blue-eyed stranger who probably thinks I'm insane."

"Well, you are a little insane. But in the best way." Mia's face mask is cracking all over now, chunks falling onto her shirt. "Listen, I have to go wash this off before it permanently adheres to my face, but we're not done with this conversation."

"Fine. Go fix your face and call me back." I wave her away, still caught between laughing and crying.

"Love you, Mrs. Mystery Man!"

"Hate you."

I hang up, flopping back against the pillows with a sigh that's half relief, half exhaustion. For one second, I feel lighter from laughing.

Then my phone buzzes again. I glance down and freeze.

Dad.

Michael Hawthorne, aka Big Mike's, stern face fills my screen, calling for the eighth time this week.

I stare at my phone, my father's name flashing on the screen like a warning sign. Eight missed calls in seven days. He never calls this much unless something's wrong. Or when he wants something.

I glance around my rental like seeing it for the first time. One lamp flickers like it’s haunted. There’s a pile of laundry I’ve been using as a side table. A sticky note on the fridge reads “YOU GOT THIS,” written during some overly ambitious wine-fueled pep talk I barely remember.

Yeah. I definitely don’t got this.

I let it ring twice more, then answer with a sigh. "Hi, Dad."

"Babygirl." His voice is gruff, all business. "You alive over there?"

"Barely." I rub my temples, grateful he can't see my disaster state through a voice call. "What's up?"

“Cassie...” My dad’s voice is gravel and command. Some things never change. “I need a favor.”

“Nope,” I say instantly. “Whatever it is, I’m out.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”

“You said ‘favor.’ I’ve met you, Dad. That’s enough.”

I push up from the bed and pace the living room like the floor is made of lava, phone pressed to my ear, heart pounding like I’m about to defuse a bomb instead of talk to my dad.

There's a dried coffee stain on my shirt from this morning’s meltdown, and a half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms on the counter.

“It’s just a quick hosting gig,” Dad says, tone shifting into business mode. Iron Ridge Icehawks mode. “It's a big event, babygirl. This weekend on the Vegas Strip.”

I close my eyes. Here it comes. The reason for all those calls.

Of course it's not concern, or because my father actually wants to talk to me and see how I'm going. It's a business opportunity. It's always a business opportunity with him.

"Dad, I'm not—"

"It's good money. Real good."

"I don't care if it's monopoly money. I'm not doing a hockey event." I pace across my living room, stepping over a discarded heel. "I left that world for a reason."

"It's the NHL Draft, Cassie!" He says it like he's announcing the second coming of Christ. "The hosting company bailed. This is real exposure for you. Big names. Big network coverage. Big money, sweetheart! BIG MONEY!"

I pause, my fingers tightening around the phone.

The NHL Draft. In Vegas. This weekend.

I used to live for it. Back when my biggest problem was whether my dad would let me wear heels to the afterparty. Draft week used to mean limos and luxury suites and watching teenage boys cry while being handed million-dollar futures.

Now?

It's the exact circus I ran away from. Because the deeper you get into that world, the more you see the ugly side. The pressure. The expectations. The way no one cares who you are unless you’re holding a hockey stick or standing back and not making waves.

I made waves.

Which is why I got kicked off the raft.

I rub a hand over my face, teeth grinding together.

I don’t want this. I want a normal life. A normal job. Maybe even a normal date that doesn’t end in Elvis and a wedding ring. I want to go back in time, shake myself by the shoulders, and scream don’t let the hot guy with the jawline get you off in a chapel bathroom.

But I can’t go back.

I blew up my own life. Again.

And now my dad’s offering me a lifeline wrapped in hockey tape and flashing dollar bills that I so desperately need right now.

My laptop sits open from where it slid off the bed before, the angle of the screen showing a paused Google search for "cheap Vegas annulments."

"Is this you trying to get me to crawl back to the rink again?" I ask eventually, voice sharp and clearly on the defensive.

"No." His tone softens. "All you gotta do is walk in, smile, and read the script. Like a normal person. Then you can disappear again... Unless—"

"No." I cut him off. "I'm not doing hockey."

But even as I say it, my mind races through the possibilities. Hosting the Draft would put my face in front of every major sports executive in the country. The kind of exposure that could resurrect my career from the grave I've been digging for it ever since I moved from Iron Ridge to Vegas.

And what are my options, really? Another week of rejection emails? More overpriced martinis by the pool while my savings dwindle?

I think about Jax for a split second. His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something precious even when I was dragging him into a chapel.

What I wouldn't give to feel that again, maybe while sober this time.

But that's over. Done. A mistake to be annulled and forgotten.

"Cassie?" My father's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You still there?"

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, head throbbing. Maybe it really is that simple. One night. One job. One last chance to prove I’m not a total disaster.

I close my eyes and exhale.

I can do the event. Read the script. Take my one shot at showing the world, and myself, that I can handle this.

That I’m still good at something.

This isn’t about Jax… Jackson… Whatever his fucking name was.

This is about me.

“Fine,” I mutter regretfully. “I’ll do it.”

" Yes ! That's my girl."

"Just this once," I add quickly. "And I want the contract today. Before I change my mind."

I hang up, tossing my phone onto the couch like it's burned me.

Yeah. This is the way to do it. This is the way to forget the night that never should have happened.