Page 22 of Pucked In Vegas

I used to live for it. Back when my biggest problem was whether my dad would let me wear heels to the afterparty. Draft week used to mean limos and luxury suites and watching teenage boys cry while being handed million-dollar futures.

Now?

It's the exact circus I ran away from. Because the deeper you get into that world, the more you see the ugly side. The pressure. The expectations. The way no one cares who you are unless you’re holding a hockey stick or standing back and not making waves.

I made waves.

Which is why I got kicked off the raft.

I rub a hand over my face, teeth grinding together.

I don’twantthis. I want a normal life. A normal job. Maybe even a normal date that doesn’t end in Elvis and a wedding ring. I want to go back in time, shake myself by the shoulders, and screamdon’t let the hot guy with the jawline get you off in a chapel bathroom.

But I can’t go back.

I blew up my own life. Again.

And now my dad’s offering me a lifeline wrapped in hockey tape and flashing dollar bills that I so desperately need right now.

My laptop sits open from where it slid off the bed before, the angle of the screen showing a paused Google search for "cheap Vegas annulments."

"Is this you trying to get me to crawl back to the rink again?" I ask eventually, voice sharp and clearly on the defensive.

"No." His tone softens. "All you gotta do is walk in, smile, and read the script. Like a normal person. Then you can disappear again... Unless—"

"No." I cut him off. "I'm not doing hockey."

But even as I say it, my mind races through the possibilities. Hosting the Draft would put my face in front of every major sports executive in the country. The kind of exposure that could resurrect my career from the grave I've been digging for it ever since I moved from Iron Ridge to Vegas.

And what are my options, really? Another week of rejection emails? More overpriced martinis by the pool while my savings dwindle?

I think about Jax for a split second. His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something precious even when I was dragging him into a chapel.

What I wouldn't give to feel that again, maybe while sober this time.

But that's over. Done. A mistake to be annulled and forgotten.

"Cassie?" My father's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You still there?"

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, head throbbing. Maybe it really is that simple. One night. One job. One last chance to prove I’m not a total disaster.

I close my eyes and exhale.

I can do the event. Read the script. Take my one shot at showing the world, and myself, that Icanhandle this.

That I’m still good at something.

This isn’t about Jax… Jackson… Whatever his fucking name was.

This is about me.

“Fine,” I mutter regretfully. “I’ll do it.”

"Yes! That's my girl."

"Just this once," I add quickly. "And I want the contract today. Before I change my mind."

I hang up, tossing my phone onto the couch like it's burned me.

---