Page 17 of Pucked In Vegas

I force myself to stand, legs unsteady beneath me. The room tilts sideways before settling, and I grab the wall for support.

Evidence of last night's chaos surrounds me like a crime scene.

On the dresser, a half-unwrapped box of Ring Pops sits next to a champagne bottle with lipstick on the rim. Her shade, bright red. A feather boa in electric pink is draped over the TV, and one of her stilettos dangles precariously from the corner of the screen.

The room smells like sweat, tequila, and… frosting? No, that’s glitter. That’s what glitter smells like.

I look down again at the damn certificate. I can’t even bring myself to touch it. My name. Her name. Permanent black ink stamped like it’s no big deal.

Cassie Hawthorne.

I married her.Actuallymarried her. And yeah, okay—we were drunk. But not blackout. I remember it.

Not every detail. But enough.

Her breathless laugh as she pulled me into the chapel. The way she nearly fell out of her dress while trying to high-five Elvis. Her hand trembling just slightly when she slid that gold ring on my finger. The exact moment her mouth met mine right after the “I now pronounce you...”

And then—

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, rubbing my face.

I stumble to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot, hair sticking up in every direction. The guy in the mirror looks like he just torched a multi-million dollar career with one tequila-soaked mistake.

Shit. Did my father wake up like this every day? Did he live his entire sorry life like this?

When I return to the bedroom, I grab the Polaroid from the nightstand. My thumb brushes over Cassie's face, her smile wide and uninhibited. Something flashes in my mind—

Cassie sitting on the bathroom counter in that tiny chapel, her legs wrapped around my waist. The black dress hiked up to her hips, revealing lace panties underneath.

"We shouldn't," I whispered against her neck, but my hands were already sliding up her thighs.

"We absolutely should," she breathed back, nipping at my lower lip.

Her fingers worked my belt, then my zipper. I groaned when she wrapped her hand around me, stroking firmly.

"I want you," she whispered, her ice-blue eyes locked on mine. "Right now."

A sharp knock rattled the door. "You kids decent? Elvis is ready!"

The memory dissolves, leaving me hard and disoriented in the middle of the hotel room.

I've worked my entire life for what's coming. Every 5 AM practice. Every bruise. Every night I cooked dinner while Dad passed out on the couch. Every scout I impressed. Every promise I made to myself when I left that shitty apartment behind.

All of it—every sacrifice, every dream—could implode because I couldn't keep it in my pants for one more week.

This isn't just a hookup. This is a fucking disaster.

The press would devour this story:Top NHL prospect marries random woman in Vegas days before draft.

Teams don't want players with impulse control issues. They don't want liability. They want professionals.

My stomach drops as I look at Cassie's sleeping form. She's beautiful, yes. But she's also a stranger. A stranger I'm now legally bound to.

I stare at Cassie, trying to decide how to wake her. The beautiful stranger I married. In Vegas. Right before the NHL draft that will change my life.

She stirs, groaning as consciousness finds her. One eye cracks open, then slams shut against the morning light.

"Why does my mouth taste like regret and cake frosting?" she mumbles into the pillow.

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