Page 2 of Stick Fight

But what the hell is she doing running around a Vegas resort in a wedding dress, black streaks down her facelike she’s fleeing a horror movie villain?

Ah.This is Vegas, dude.

Yeah. Fair point. Maybe she just had one of those Elvis weddings and is now questioning all of her life choices. Because as we all know,what happens in Vegas stays on social media.

I move toward the hot tub, pulling off my ball cap as the soothing hum of the jets draws me closer. Just as I near the bubbling water, I hear it: soft, shaky sniffing.

I slow my steps. The jets cut off with an eerie silence.

And then I see her.

The ghostly figure.

TheveryrealGabby Evans.

“Uh…hello?” I say.

The sniffing stops.

The fog clears.

My heart jumps into my throat.

“Gabby?” My eyes narrow as I focus on the woman in front of me, mascara streaked down her cheeks like she just escaped a particularly tragic rom-com.

She goes deathly still, clutching a fistful of her wedding dress like it’s some kind of emotional security blanket.

Shit, maybe it isn’t her. Maybe she has a doppelganger.

I quickly hold my hands up, palms out, like I’m trying to calm a spooked animal. “Whoa—hey, I wasn’t following you. I was just heading for a soak. Didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll, uh…get out of your way.”

Even as I say it, something about walking away feelswrong. This woman is clearly notokay, and while I’ve got a strict personal policy about not getting involved in other people’s romantic train wrecks—not my vows, not my regrets—I can’t seem to make my feet move.

Then she speaks.

“Roman?”

I freeze. My heart jumps into my throat. “Gabby?”

She sniffles, using the hem of her dress to scrub at the black streaks on her face. “Yeah.”

“It’s me,” I say quickly. “Roman Marinelli.” I step closer, and after she gets a proper look at me, I tug my ball cap back off for a second. “I thought it was you, but you were moving so fast I wasn’t sure.” Trying to lighten the mood, because what else can you do when you run into a runaway bride in a posh Vegas hotel, I add, “You really should have joined the track team in high school.”

She lets out another sniffle, followed by a tired laugh. “God, I must look like a mess.”

Is she seriously worried about her appearance right now?

“Are you okay?”Dumb question, dude.Of course she’s not okay.

She doesn’t answer, just flips the conversation on me. “What are you doing here?”

I nod toward the hot tub. “Was planning to take a soak.”

“No, I mean what are you doing inVegas? Don’t you live in Boston now?”

“Oh, right.” I smirk. “Hockey fan?”

She shrugs. “Not overly.”

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