Page 21 of Pucked In Vegas

"What am I going to do, Mia? I married a stranger. A hot, blue-eyed stranger who probably thinks I'm insane."

"Well, you are a little insane. But in the best way." Mia's face mask is cracking all over now, chunks falling onto her shirt. "Listen, I have to go wash this off before it permanently adheres to my face, but we're not done with this conversation."

"Fine. Go fix your face and call me back." I wave her away, still caught between laughing and crying.

"Love you, Mrs. Mystery Man!"

"Hate you."

I hang up, flopping back against the pillows with a sigh that's half relief, half exhaustion. For one second, I feel lighter from laughing.

Then my phone buzzes again. I glance down and freeze.

Dad.

Michael Hawthorne, aka Big Mike's, stern face fills my screen, calling for the eighth time this week.

I stare at my phone, my father's name flashing on the screen like a warning sign. Eight missed calls in seven days. He never calls this much unless something's wrong. Or when he wants something.

I glance around my rental like seeing it for the first time. One lamp flickers like it’s haunted. There’s a pile of laundry I’ve been using as a side table. A sticky note on the fridge reads “YOU GOT THIS,” written during some overly ambitious wine-fueled pep talk I barely remember.

Yeah. I definitely don’tgot this.

I let it ring twice more, then answer with a sigh. "Hi, Dad."

"Babygirl." His voice is gruff, all business. "You alive over there?"

"Barely." I rub my temples, grateful he can't see my disaster state through a voice call. "What's up?"

“Cassie...” My dad’s voice is gravel and command. Some things never change. “I need a favor.”

“Nope,” I say instantly. “Whatever it is, I’m out.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”

“You said ‘favor.’ I’ve met you, Dad. That’s enough.”

I push up from the bed and pace the living room like the floor is made of lava, phone pressed to my ear, heart pounding like I’m about to defuse a bomb instead of talk to my dad.

There's a dried coffee stain on my shirt from this morning’s meltdown, and a half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms on the counter.

“It’s just a quick hosting gig,” Dad says, tone shifting into business mode.Iron Ridge Icehawksmode. “It's a big event, babygirl. This weekend on the Vegas Strip.”

I close my eyes. Here it comes. The reason for all those calls.

Of course it's not concern, or because my father actually wants to talk to me and see how I'm going. It's a business opportunity. It's always a business opportunity with him.

"Dad, I'm not—"

"It's good money. Real good."

"I don't care if it's monopoly money. I'm not doing a hockey event." I pace across my living room, stepping over a discarded heel. "I left that world for a reason."

"It's the NHL Draft, Cassie!" He says it like he's announcing the second coming of Christ. "The hosting company bailed. This is real exposure for you. Big names. Big network coverage. Big money, sweetheart! BIG MONEY!"

I pause, my fingers tightening around the phone.

The NHL Draft. In Vegas. This weekend.

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