Page 9 of Pucking One Night Stand

And not just because some drop-dead gorgeous caveman decided to test the structural limits of this mattress.

Today is the day.

After four long years of clawing my way through Arizona State to get a degree in hand and a portfolio full of ambition and Instagram-worthy lattes, I’m finally starting my new job.

Media and Communications Manager for the Vegas Aces.

Not too shabby for a girl whose Dad still thinks I need permission to cross the street.

Oh yeah... Dad.

Or as the hockey world knows him: Head Coach Hugh “You’ll do it my way, or you’re benched” McCullum.

He still talks to me like I’m five. Still gives me stupid, pointless lectures. Still thinks the fact that I wear lipstick means I can’t go through a whole day without crying.

I glance at the clock mounted on the wall. 6:41 AM.

Right. Get up, shower, go home, and find something that screams ‘Yes, I’m young, yes, I’m hot, but also yes, I’m terrifyingly competent’, then get to Silver State Arena by nine.

And do not think about that Blake idiot and his stupid, hot body and his even stupider, hotter touch, and most particularly not his shitty vanishing act.

Too late.

The thought of him just ghosting out like that, like I was some bar pick-up, which I suppose, thinking about it, I was. No. He was. I picked him up! Not the other way. This sends another wave of white-hot fury through me.

And then what do I go and do?

Shut my eyes for one tiny moment. Only to blink them open again and see the clock screaming 8:05 AM in big, red, traitorous numbers.

Shit!

I launch out of bed like it's on fire, naked as the day I was born, stumbling straight over one of my shoes.Right, of course. But my damn panties? Where? Nowhere.

Where the hell is my other shoe?

My dress is still sprawled out on the floor like a crime scene victim. My bra dangles off a lamp like it’s trying to make a break for it.

I snatch up the dress.Score! My other shoe is underneath.I shimmy into the silky fabric while stepping into the rogue shoe in record speed, all the while reminding myself that underwear is a luxury I’ll deal with later.

The second I pull the dress over my hips, I bolt toward my bag by the door and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Oh. Fuck. Horrific. Horrific.

I look like I crawled out of a haunted house. Panda eyes. Mascara smudged halfway down my cheeks. Lipstick faded into ‘slightly mauled.’

Hair? A disaster. Like, a small, woodland creature-nesting disaster.

I can’t go out like this.

I yank my bag open, rummage like I’m diffusing a bomb, and thank the gods of vanity when I find my emergency brush jammed between a spare phone charger and a lip gloss that’sseen better days. I toss the bag onto the bed and rush into the bathroom.

Water. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. I splash my face like I’m trying to reset my entire existence. Then I attack my hair with the brush in front of the mirror like it personally offended me, and wet it enough to make it look somewhat presentable.

Good enough. Barely. But hey, I don’t look like I murdered someone anymore, which is a solid win.

Brush goes back in the bag, which I sling over my shoulder, and I’m out the door in less than thirty seconds.

As I power-walk indamn heelsacross the 12th-floor to the elevator, all I can think of is—this hallway.