Page 2 of Pucked In Vegas

"Hey, you!" My voice sounds artificially chipper even to my own ears.

"Oh my god, are you drunk at a pool?" Mia's face fills the screen, her hazel eyes narrowing as she takes in my surroundings. "At two in the afternoon. On a Tuesday?"

"It's Vegas, darling. Time is a social construct here."

The screen jostles as Mia flips her camera, revealing Sophia Hart sprawled on Mia's couch in flannel pajamas, hair piled in a messy bun, clutching a mug of Summit Cafe's famous coffee.

"Look who I found!" Mia chirps.

"Is that... are those martini glasses behind you?" Sophia leans closer to the screen. "Plural? As in multiple?"

"Business lunch," I lie smoothly. "Very successful. Huge client. You wouldn't believe the contract I just landed."

They both stare silently, waiting for the façade to crack.

"It's got that bad, huh?" Sophia finally says.

I deflate like a week-old birthday balloon. "Six rejections this week. I'm thinking about producing children's birthday parties. Or funerals. Both involve crying and cake, right?"

"Cass..." Mia's voice softens. "You know you could always—"

"Don't say it." I take a generous sip of my martini. "I'm not calling my father."

"Or," Sophia offers tentatively, "you could come home for a bit? Regroup in Iron Ridge until—"

"I'd rather perform my own appendectomy with a rusty spoon." I gesture wildly toward the bachelor party that's now engaged in some kind of splash competition. "See those guys? Loud, obnoxious, thinking they're God's gift to humanity? That's every hockey player I grew up around. That's Iron Ridge's entire town culture in a nutshell."

The guys let out a particularly piercing whoop, as if on cue.

One of the guys climbs out of the pool and I can't help but notice how water cascades down his body in rivulets, like little rivers that trace every ridge of his abs.

And holy shit… there are many ridges to trace.

His dark hair is slicked back, droplets clinging to impossibly long eyelashes framing green eyes that catch the sunlight like sea glass. The guy stretches his arms overhead, muscles flexing beneath golden skin, and my mouth goes embarrassingly dry. He's younger than me, probably. Definitely one of those frat boy types I despise on principle.

"Cass? Hello? Are you even listening?" Mia's voice sounds distant.

"Hmm? Yeah, absolutely."

I tilt my phone slightly so they can't see what, orwho,I'm looking at.

I firmly redirect my gaze to my friends on screen. This is exactly why I avoid places like this. Every bar in Vegas is full of pretty distractions with nothing behind their eyes except their own reflection.

No thank you.

"Look, I spent years drowning in hockey. The smell of sweaty gear in my dad's car. The constant talk of power plays and penalty kills at our dinner table. The puck bunnies throwing themselves at players… atmy dad,for fucks sake."

I drain my martini for emphasis.

"I built my career specifically to escape all that. I'm not going back to that world. I don't care if I have to start planning sweet sixteens for spoiled rich kids."

Mia and Sophia exchange a look that screams "intervention."

"We're worried about you," Sophia says gently. "How long can you keep this up?"

"As long as it takes."

I set my empty glass on the table and wave at the waitress for another round.

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