Page 23 of Pucked In Vegas

Yeah. This is the way to do it. This is the way to forget the night that never should have happened.

Chapter Six

Jackson

Ipush my sunglasses higher up my nose, wincing as Keller slams his coffee mug down on the table.

"So you're telling me," he says, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin, "that you married a hot blonde in Vegas, and you don't even remember if you sealed the deal or not?"

I stab at my scrambled eggs, my stomach turning at the sight of food.

The hotel buffet stretches around us in a monument to excess. There's bacon piled in actual pyramids, a chef flipping omelets the size of my face, and bottomless mimosas that Donovan's been demolishing since we sat down.

"Drop it," I mutter.

"No fucking way." Donovan reaches across the table and steals a slice of bacon off my plate. "You gotwife'd upby a stranger. This is the greatest thing that's ever happened."

My friends just sit and laugh at my misery as Donovan clinks his spoon against his glass.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here today to mourn the single life of one Jackson ‘First Draft Pick’ Holt. May his freedom rest in peace, alongside the chapel where he lost his dignity.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, stabbing my fork into the eggs and immediately regretting it. Too squishy. Too yellow.

I slouch deeper in my chair. The marriage certificate burns in my jacket pocket, folded and hidden away like evidence of a crime. Which, in my agents eyes, it probably is.

"Either way, she wasn't a stranger," I protest weakly. "We talked for hours."

"About what?" Keller asks, shoveling hashbrowns into his mouth.

I open my mouth to answer, then close it.

Whatdidwe talk about? The details are fuzzy, buried under tequila shots and the memory of her mouth on mine. I remember her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was just a guy, not Jackson Holt, future NHL star.

"Important stuff," I say finally.

Donovan snorts orange juice up his nose. "Like what? Her cup size?"

"Fuck off." I throw a balled-up napkin at his head.

My phone buzzes for the fifth time this morning. It's Madison again, so I don’t open it. I already know what the message will say. Something about Nike meetings or a sponsorship handshake or media contracts I still haven’t reviewed.

She’s working the Strip like a PR bloodhound, setting up the chessboard before the teams can start bidding on me at the Draft.

I should be happy I have one of the best agents in the league looking out for me. Soon, every GM in the league gets to throw their hat in the ring for Jackson Holt. The kid from nowhere. The fastest winger in the league. The one whoshouldbe focused. Dialed in. Game face on.

Not sneaking looks at the certificate burning a hole in his coat pocket or wondering if Cassie remembers what he whispered against her neck before they saidI do.

Keller leans in, lowers his voice. “Youaregetting it annulled… right?”

“Yeah,” I say automatically.

Liar.

"And you do know her name?" Keller asks, refilling his coffee. "Herrealname?"

"Cassie," I say, the name feeling strangely intimate on my tongue. "Cassie Hawthorne."

Donovan drains his juice. “What if you’re into her? Like,intoher into her?”

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