Page 39 of Pucking One Night Stand

A low rustle. The priest steps forward, murmurs something none of us really hear, and lets the first clump of dirt fall. It hits with a thud.

Thumper’s father steps up next. His face is gray. Unreadable. He lets the soil drop, then steps back. His tearful wife follows, her lips pressed together so hard they’ve gone white.

His little brother’s shoulders shake when it’s his turn. He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t make a sound. Just drops the dirt and backs away.

Another follows. Then another.

The sound isn’t loud, but it hits hard. A low, dull finality that drops into your chest and stays there.

Then it’s me.

I step forward. My boots sink slightly into the damp ground. I crouch, grab a handful of earth, cold and wet, and toss it down into the hole. It scatters across the top of the casket, and I glance at Bishy, his jaw tight, eyes glassy. Then I glance at Thumper’s parents.

This is it.

No comeback. No fix. No second period.

This is real.

This is final.

Chapter six

Cassy

As I enter Valerie’s office, the door clicks shut behind me, a soft snick that feels way too official for this time of the morning.

I’ve got my laptop balanced on one hip, a half-finished iced Americano clutched in my other hand, and an outfit that definitely says; I'm trying but I might also punch someone today.

Valerie’s already deep in email territory, tapping away at her keyboard like the fate of the world hangs on a well-placed semicolon. Without looking up, she gestures to the seat across from her desk.

“Thanks for coming in, Cassy. I wanted to update you on something before we go public with it.”

I drop into the chair, legs crossed, rest my cup on her desk, and flip open my laptop. “Okay. Go on.”

She leans forward, clasping her hands on the desk in that very calm but about-to-ruin-your-morning way. “Following the sad passing of Thomas Keegan, or Thumper as he was known…” Her voice doesn’t crack, but it softens, just slightly. “…this morning,after a long meeting, your father, Jake Mathews, GM, the coaching staff, and the entire team, held a vote.”

My eyebrow lifts. “A vote? For what?”

She nods once. “For the new vacant position of Las Vegas Aces captain.”

My fingers hover over my laptop keys. “Oh—okay.”

Valerie’s watching me like she’s evaluating my blood pressure through my eyes. “And that means we need to start prepping immediately.”

She continues. “You’ll be responsible for organizing the press event, coordinating media strategies, scheduling interviews, and handling social campaigns.”

“Right, got it.” I type a few notes, then pause and look up. “Wait, who IS the new captain?”

Valerie blinks at me like I just asked if water was wet, then lets out a soft, almost apologetic laugh.

“Oh, sorry. Thought I mentioned it.” She leans back, her tone suddenly breezy. “Blake Mitchell.”

My eyes narrow just a fraction. “Blake Mitchell?” I sigh out an “Okay,” but it's not the kind that means okay. It's the kind that means great, I’ll be screaming into a pillow later.

I’ve handled a lot in my life. Got a PR degree from Columbia. Survived a two-week blackout launch in Barcelona with no translator and three athletes who thought ‘media blackout’ meant ‘go wild on Instagram.’ I’ve dealt with egos, meltdowns, and literal flames. But this? This is next-level.

Blake freaking Mitchell. The one-night Adonis bed partner who ghosted me. Just great!