Page 1 of Sweet Pucking Revenge (2-Hour Quickies #6)

Grayson

Four Months Earlier

"I need your help man, this is an emergency."

I look up from my beer to find Kyle Finley hovering over our table at the Aria's lobby bar, still in his Vegas Vipers practice gear and breathing hard like he ran here.

"Some of us are trying to have a quiet drink," Niklas Roth says beside me, his German accent thick with annoyance. My new teammate had the right idea—after a brutal practice, we'd found this quiet corner to discuss tomorrow's strategies over a cold one.

"My sister," Kyle pants, "she's in the hospital again. I need to be there."

I study him over the rim of my glass. Two weeks since my trade to the Vipers, and I still can't get a read on Kyle Finley. Everything about him feels... calculated. Like he's always working an angle.

"What do you need?" I ask, though I already know I'll regret it. My mother's voice whispers in my head about helping others, even when it's inconvenient. Even when every instinct tells you to walk away.

"My girlfriend's waiting at the Bellagio. I was supposed to take her to dinner and to the Criss Angel show. She's all excited, came from Mexico just to visit me." His gaze darts between us. "Roth?"

"Sorry, man." Niklas shakes his head. "Video call with the national team coach. Can't reschedule."

Kyle's desperate look zeros in on me. "G? You're new in town anyway. Perfect chance to explore Vegas."

I take another sip, buying time. The last thing I want is to play tour guide in a city that still feels foreign.

The trade from Philadelphia came out of nowhere—one day I'm alternate captain of the Flyers, the next I'm packing boxes for Vegas.

Being named captain of the Vipers should feel like a win, but right now, all I feel is exhausted.

"Your girlfriend?" I ask, stalling.

Kyle's face splits into a grin that makes my skin crawl. "Margarita. Last name Flores, which means flowers. Cute, huh? Hot little number from Mexico. Her old man owns some fancy resort in Cancún. Not a bad catch, huh?"

Beside me, Niklas mutters something in German that doesn't sound complimentary.

"How do you have a Mexican girlfriend?" I ask, genuinely puzzled.

"Met her online." Kyle leans against our high-top, lowering his voice.

"She's a good girl, you know how those Mexican chicks are—all about pleasing their man.

Comes to visit often, and I'm thinking I might propose someday.

Her dad's loaded, and that resort would be a sweet place to retire when this hockey career's over. "

My stomach turns. "But do you love her? You're talking about her like she's a business investment."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive, captain." He winks, and I resist the urge to punch him. "Of course I love her. Gotta run—she's waiting in the Bellagio lobby. Asked her to wear a red dress so you can't miss her."

"Hold up," I say. "I haven't agreed to—"

"Thanks, bro. I'll text when I'm on my way back, but it'll probably take all night." He's already backing away. "I'll bring her flowers tomorrow and she'll forgive me. Well, there's nothing actually to forgive—it's a family emergency, right?"

I watch him practically sprint toward the exit, leaving behind the distinct impression I've been played.

"That guy," Niklas says, "is about as trustworthy as a snake oil salesman."

"Yeah." I drain my beer and stand. "I should change."

"You're actually going to help him?"

I shrug. "There's a woman waiting in a red dress who's about to be stood up. What would you do?"

Niklas raises his glass in salute. "Try not to fall in love with her."

"She's Finley's girlfriend."

"Exactly my point."

Twenty minutes later, I'm walking through the Bellagio's marble lobby, feeling overdressed and underprepared. Dark jeans, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, navy blazer—the kind of outfit that says 'nice dinner' without trying too hard.

The fountain show starts outside, and tourists rush to the windows. I scan the thinning crowd, looking for red. There's something deeply wrong about this whole situation. About Kyle Finley in general.

Then I see her.

She's standing by one of the massive flower arrangements, phone in hand, wearing a dress that makes my breath catch.

The red fabric hugs every inch like it was made just for her—dangerously well.

Her dark hair tumbles past her shoulders in waves, and even from here I can see she's gorgeous—but it's more than that.

She practically vibrates with energy, drawing every eye in the lobby.

How the hell did Kyle Finley end up with someone like her?

I approach slowly, rehearsing what I'll say. Hi, I'm Grayson Prescott, Kyle's teammate. He had a family emergency...

She looks up before I reach her, and damn. Those eyes. Dark and expressive, they widen slightly as she takes me in.

"You must be Kyle's friend?" Her voice carries a hint of accent, musical and warm. "I'm Margarita, but my friends call me Maggie." She extends her hand, and I notice her nails match her dress perfectly.

"Grayson Prescott." I take her hand, trying to ignore the spark of electricity when our skin touches. "Kyle asked me to—"

"His sister?" She bites her lower lip, concern flooding her features. "Is she okay? Kyle's told me about her health problems."

Has he now? I think, remembering Kyle's smirk as he left the bar. "He said he'd text you more details later."

"Oh." Her smile dims, and something in my chest tightens. "I understand. He must be worried sick." She glances at her phone, then back at me with forced brightness. "Thank you for coming to let me know. I should probably head back—"

"Actually," I say quickly, "Kyle asked if I could show you around. Since you came all this way..." I trail off, suddenly aware of how this might sound.

She studies me, head tilted. "That's very kind, but I wouldn't want to impose. You must have plans—"

"No plans." I gesture to the windows where the fountains are still dancing. "Have you seen the show up close yet?"

"No, I..." A genuine smile breaks through, lighting up her entire face. "I've only seen it in movies."

"Come on then." Before I can overthink it, I lead her toward the doors. The night air hits us with that distinct desert chill, and we join the crowd along the railings.

The fountains surge and sway to classical music, and I find myself watching her reaction instead of the water. Pure joy radiates from her as she takes in the spectacle, and I understand why Kyle would want to impress her with Vegas's magic.

"It's beautiful," she breathes, leaning forward.

"First time in Vegas?"

She nods, still captivated. "Kyle was going to show me everything. I got us tickets to Criss Angel's show, and made dinner reservations at Picasso..." Her enthusiasm falters. "But of course, family comes first."

There's that tightness in my chest again. "We could still do those things," I offer. "If you want."

She turns to me, surprise clear on her face. "Oh, no, I couldn't. What if Kyle—" She stops, chewing her lip again. "I mean, wouldn't that be... inappropriate?"

Her hesitation is exactly what makes me want to convince her. There's something genuine about the way she considers Kyle's feelings, even when he's the one who stood her up.

"Kyle specifically asked me to show you around," I say. "He didn't want your first Vegas experience ruined."

She laughs, and the sound does something to my insides. "Is that what he said?"

"More or less." I'm not lying—technically. "Look, the tickets are already paid for, right? Seems a waste to let them go unused."

The fountains surge one final time before settling, and she watches them with a thoughtful expression. When she turns back to me, there's a spark of mischief in her eyes.

"Okay, but first you have to tell me something." She crosses her arms, trying to look stern but failing. "Why aren't you more excited to be in Vegas? Most people would be bouncing off the walls, but you look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

Her perception catches me off guard. "That obvious, huh?"

"Like a sore thumb." She grins. "That's such a funny expression. You gringos have funny expressions."

I raise an eyebrow. "Gringos?"

She laughs. "Not an insult. I promise. In Mexico, we call Americans that all the time. Nobody’s totally sure where it came from—some say it was the green uniforms during the Mexican-American war, others say your soldiers used to sing a song that started with ‘Green, go.’ Either way, it stuck."

"And it’s affectionate?"

"Very. And way shorter than ‘Estadounidense,’ which is the Spanish for ‘citizen of the United States.’ That’s a mouthful."

I laugh. "I’ll take it then."

"So back to our conversation… let me guess—you're not a fan of all..." She waves her hand at the Strip's neon glory, "...this?"

"Not exactly my scene." I find myself smiling despite myself. "I'm more of a quiet night in kind of guy."

"Ah, an introvert! And they made you team captain?" She claps a hand over her mouth. "Sorry, Kyle told me you'd just been traded here—and that you got the C right away.”

She pauses, then adds, “I follow hockey. That's actually how Kyle and I connected—online first, but then we started talking more because I was researching hockey for an AI project."

"What kind of project?"

"I work in AI development." Her eyes light up. "We're creating predictive models for sports analytics, and hockey's fascinating because—" She stops herself, cheeks flushing. "Sorry, I get carried away. Kyle says hockey players and computers don't mix."

"Kyle's an idiot." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Instead of being offended, she laughs again. "You know what? I'd love to learn more about hockey—from you. Over dinner?" She pauses. "As friends, of course."

"Of course." I try to ignore how my pulse quickens. I check my watch. "Criss Angel first, then dinner?"

"Perfect." The excitement is back in her voice. "That way we'll have something to debate over steaks—whether it was real magic or just really good technology."