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Chapter Six

Jackson

I push my sunglasses higher up my nose, wincing as Keller slams his coffee mug down on the table.

"So you're telling me," he says, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin, "that you married a hot blonde in Vegas, and you don't even remember if you sealed the deal or not?"

I stab at my scrambled eggs, my stomach turning at the sight of food.

The hotel buffet stretches around us in a monument to excess. There's bacon piled in actual pyramids, a chef flipping omelets the size of my face, and bottomless mimosas that Donovan's been demolishing since we sat down.

"Drop it," I mutter.

"No fucking way." Donovan reaches across the table and steals a slice of bacon off my plate. "You got wife'd up by a stranger. This is the greatest thing that's ever happened."

My friends just sit and laugh at my misery as Donovan clinks his spoon against his glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here today to mourn the single life of one Jackson ‘First Draft Pick’ Holt. May his freedom rest in peace, alongside the chapel where he lost his dignity.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, stabbing my fork into the eggs and immediately regretting it. Too squishy. Too yellow.

I slouch deeper in my chair. The marriage certificate burns in my jacket pocket, folded and hidden away like evidence of a crime. Which, in my agents eyes, it probably is.

"Either way, she wasn't a stranger," I protest weakly. "We talked for hours."

"About what?" Keller asks, shoveling hashbrowns into his mouth.

I open my mouth to answer, then close it.

What did we talk about? The details are fuzzy, buried under tequila shots and the memory of her mouth on mine. I remember her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was just a guy, not Jackson Holt, future NHL star.

"Important stuff," I say finally.

Donovan snorts orange juice up his nose. "Like what? Her cup size?"

"Fuck off." I throw a balled-up napkin at his head.

My phone buzzes for the fifth time this morning. It's Madison again, so I don’t open it. I already know what the message will say. Something about Nike meetings or a sponsorship handshake or media contracts I still haven’t reviewed.

She’s working the Strip like a PR bloodhound, setting up the chessboard before the teams can start bidding on me at the Draft.

I should be happy I have one of the best agents in the league looking out for me. Soon, every GM in the league gets to throw their hat in the ring for Jackson Holt. The kid from nowhere. The fastest winger in the league. The one who should be focused. Dialed in. Game face on.

Not sneaking looks at the certificate burning a hole in his coat pocket or wondering if Cassie remembers what he whispered against her neck before they said I do.

Keller leans in, lowers his voice. “You are getting it annulled… right?”

“Yeah,” I say automatically.

Liar.

"And you do know her name?" Keller asks, refilling his coffee. "Her real name?"

"Cassie," I say, the name feeling strangely intimate on my tongue. "Cassie Hawthorne."

Donovan drains his juice. “What if you’re into her? Like, into her into her?”

I choke on my hashbrown. “What?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he shrugs, stealing a rasher of bacon off my plate. “Love at first lap dance.”

“She didn’t give me a lap dance.”

Keller lifts his glass. “To lap dances that turn into lifelong commitments!”

I ignore him. Fuck. I need a break. Some air.

Some space to think without their voices in my ears and the memory of Cassie’s laugh echoing through my hungover brain.

I duck out of the restaurant, sunglasses still on. My head throbs, the coffee I just inhaled doing jack shit. Each step I take through the hotel's winding corridors toward the casino feels heavy.

Maybe a few hands of blackjack will clear my mind.

The marriage certificate weighs heavy in my pocket. I pull it out, unfold it just enough to see our names side by side again. Jackson Holt and Cassie Hawthorne.

I'm tucking it back when a deep voice stops me cold.

"You're Jackson Holt, right?"

I look up to find Blake Maddox— the Blake Maddox, captain of the Iron Ridge Icehawks—standing in front of me like he materialized from the holographic hockey card I had of him when I was a kid.

He's dressed in black joggers and an Icehawks team hoodie, sipping black coffee from a paper cup, looking completely at ease.

"Holy shit," I blurt before I can stop myself. "I mean… yes, sir. That's me."

Blake's laugh is warm and genuine. "Drop the 'sir.' Makes me feel ancient." He extends his hand. "Blake Maddox. Captain of the Icehawks."

"I know." I shake his hand, hoping mine isn't sweating right now. "I've been watching you play since I was ten."

"Thanks, man. And from what I hear, you might be wearing our jersey soon." He gestures toward a small seating area tucked away from the main corridor. "Actually, you got a minute?"

My heart hammers against my ribs.

Blake Maddox wants to talk to me. Blake Maddox knows who I am.

We sit, and he leans back, completely relaxed. "Draft's got the whole league buzzing. Your name especially."

"That's what they tell me." I try to match his casual tone and fail miserably.

"The YouTube videos don't lie. Your edge work is something else." He takes a sip of his coffee. "But I'm guessing you've heard that from every scout in North America."

"It's still surreal coming from you."

Blake studies me for a moment. "How are you handling the pressure? Being the golden boy isn't always easy."

"I'm—" I start to give the standard media answer Madison has trained me to give, then stop myself. "Honestly? It's fucking terrifying."

This earns me another laugh. "Good answer. Honest. The boys will appreciate that."

"The boys?"

"The team back home." Blake leans forward slightly. "Listen, the draft's all politics and showmanship. But inside the locker room? That's real. The boys want to meet the league's next poster boy." He lowers his voice. "Michael Hawthorne won't shut up about it."

My stomach drops. "Michael… Hawthorne ?"

"Yeah, our CEO. Man's convinced you're the missing piece to our trophy cabinet." Blake takes another sip of coffee. "Between us, I think he's right. Might take you a few years to get up to speed, but you'll get there."

Despite the heavy compliments from one of my favorite players of all time… suddenly, I can't breathe.

Michael Hawthorne. Hawthorne . Cassie Hawthorne.

A flash of memory hits me. The image of Cassie panicking in the hotel room this morning: "My dad will literally throw pucks at people."

"You okay?" Blake asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Fine," I manage. "Just... processing it all."

"Well, if you're up for it, swing by our team suite tomorrow night. Informal thing. No media, no bullshit. Just hockey guys talking shit."

"That's—that would be amazing," I say automatically, my brain still short-circuiting.

Hawthorne…

Blake stands, claps me on the shoulder. "Good meeting you, Holt. Looking forward to seeing what you bring to the table."

"You too. Thank you." The words come out robotically as my mind races.

He walks away, and I sit frozen in place.

Cassie Hawthorne. Michael Hawthorne. Iron Ridge Icehawks.

Holy fucking shit.

I married the CEO's daughter. Of the team that's about to draft me.

What. The actual. Fuck.

The realization hits me like a crosscheck to the ribs. That's what she meant by her dad throwing pucks. That's why "Hawthorne" sounded familiar.

It wasn't just any random Vegas hookup—it was Cassie Hawthorne.

I pull out the marriage certificate again, staring at her name like it might change if I look hard enough.

This isn't just messy. This could be career-ending before it even starts.

I stand up, my legs unsteady.

I walk straight to the blackjack table. I need a distraction, something to stop the spiral of panic threatening to overwhelm me.

The casino floor buzzes with white noise as I drop into the empty seat at the blackjack table. Red velvet stretches beneath my fingertips, my hands still shaking from the shock.

I place my chips in the betting circle, my movements almost robotic right now.

The dealer nods, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and quick hands. We're alone at the table. Just me, her, and the thoughts screaming through my head.

"Good luck, sir," she says, dealing me two cards face down.

Cassie Hawthorne. The CEO's daughter.

I close my eyes and her face materializes. Those ice-blue eyes that saw straight through me. The way her silky hair fell across her bare shoulders in the club. How she threw her head back when she laughed, like she was surprised by her own joy.

The memory of her lips against mine outside the chapel sends electricity down my spine.

"Sir? Your cards."

I stare at the backs of the cards, not touching them yet.

This is stupid. I should call Madison's lawyer friend right now. Get this mess annulled before Michael Hawthorne discovers I drunkenly married his daughter days before he gave me the world on a silver fucking platter.

But then I remember how Cassie looked at me. Not like I was Jackson Holt, hockey's golden boy, but just... Jax . A guy she wanted to know.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

"Everything okay?" the dealer asks.

"Yeah, sorry. Just... thinking."

My fingers hover over the cards. I've spent my entire life working for this moment. The draft, the contract, the chance to escape my past and make a new life.

And now, one scandal could tank everything.

But something about Cassie felt real. Even drunk, even stupid with tequila and bad decisions, there was something between us that I've never felt before.

Hell, she convinced me to marry her for Christ's sake.

I take a deep breath. This is insane. I'm actually considering—what? Pursuing a woman I married by accident? A woman who's the daughter of the most powerful man in the organization that's about to own my life?

My heart pounds against my ribs as I make a deal with myself.

Right here, right now, I'll let fate decide.

If I hit blackjack—21 exactly—I don't call the lawyer. I find Cassie. I tell her who I am. I see if whatever sparked between us was real or just Vegas 'magic'.

Anything else, any other number, I walk away. Get the annulment like she asked and pretend this never happened.

"Here goes nothing," I whisper, flipping the first card.

Jack of spades. 10 points.

My pulse quickens. I flip the second card.

Ace of hearts. 11 points.

Blackjack.

The red heart symbol in the center seems to pulse with my own heartbeat.

"Blackjack!" the dealer announces, even though we're the only ones at the table. "Congratulations, sir."

The air rushes from my lungs. I stare at the cards, the Jack and Ace forming a perfect 21. My fingers trace the edge of the Ace of hearts. Of all the cards in the deck, this one found me.

I look up at the dealer, who's waiting patiently for my next move. But I already know what I'm going to do.

"I'm cashing out," I say, gathering my chips.

My decision is made. Not by my brain, which is still screaming about careers and contracts and bitter fucking consequences for what I'm about to do.

But by my heart, which hasn't stopped thinking about Cassie Hawthorne since the moment she took my hand at that pool.

Blackjack. Twenty-one. The universe has spoken.

I'm going after my wife.