Page 1 of Pucked In Vegas

Chapter One

Cassie

The Las Vegas sun blazes overhead as I adjust my oversized sunglasses and take another sip of my martini.

The rooftop pool stretches before me like a mirage, all shimmering blue against the desert skyline. I kick back in the splurge I definitely can't afford right now… my very own private cabana.

Despite the cost that will have my credit card screaming later, it offers the perfect vantage point for people-watching and career-mourning. Because nothing says "I've hit rock bottom professionally" quite like sipping overpriced alcohol while judging strangers in bikinis from behind designer sunglasses I bought when I still had job security.

I glance at my phone again.

Rejection email number six stares back at me.

Thank you for your interest in producing our charity gala. While your portfolio shows promise, we're looking for someone with more established experience...

"More established experience," I mutter, flagging down the cocktail server as she drifts by. "I'd like another, please. Make this one extra dirty. Maybe extra olives, too."

She nods sympathetically, eyeing the three empty glasses already lined up on my table. "Rough day?"

"Oh no." I flash her my brightest fake smile. The one I perfected at hockey banquets standing next to my father as a child. "Just celebrating my ongoing success."

She leaves without saying anything and I slump back against the plush cabana cushions.

The Vegas Strip glitters below, a reminder of all the spectacular events happening in this city tonight.

None of which, by the way, bear my signature.

This is rejection number six this week. Six potential clients who took one look at my portfolio and decided to pass.

The truth is, one phone call to my father would fix everything. As CEO of one of the top ice hockey teams in the country, Michael 'Big Mike' Hawthorne knows everyone.

One word from him and I'd have more work than I could handle. Corporate events for the Iron Ridge Icehawks. Player celebrations. Meet-and-greets with men who think a stick check is the height of sophistication.

But I'd rather eat glass than ask my father for help.

Doing so would mean admitting defeat, crawling back to the sports world… thehockeyworld to be exact. I'd be becoming exactly what I've spent my entire adult life running from: Daddy's little girl.

The server returns with my fourth martini. "This one's on the house, honey. Whatever it is, it'll get better."

I raise my glass in a silent toast to her optimism and my stubbornness. The olives swim in vodka like my last shreds of dignity.

My phone rings and Dad's face flashes on the screen. I let it go to voicemail, as I have for the past three weeks.

Another sip burns down my throat as I watch a bachelor party splash around in the pool, their carefree laughter a soundtrack to my professional free-fall.

"Screw it," I whisper to no one, pulling up my email.

I start typing a pitch for a sports-adjacent charity event. Not hockey. Fuck that. I'm not that desperate.Yet.

Maybe golf. Or tennis. Something with less ice and fewer memories.

But just as I start tapping at the screen, my phone buzzes again, this time with an incoming FaceTime call. Mia's name flashes across the screen, along with her ridiculously cheerful contact photo of her grinning while holding some rescue puppy she was fostering back at her Veterinary Clinic in Iron Ridge last month.

I consider declining. I look like a million bucks, but I feel like clearance rack emotional baggage, and Mia has this annoying ability to see right through my perfectly applied concealer.

But she's also my best friend, and I haven't talked to another human being in two days who wasn't trying to sell me something or reject my business proposal.

I take a deep breath and swipe to answer, plastering on my best "Everything's Fabulous" smile.

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