Page 24 of Pucked In Vegas

I choke on my hashbrown. “What?”

“Stranger things have happened,” he shrugs, stealing a rasher of bacon off my plate. “Love at first lap dance.”

“She didn’t give me a lap dance.”

Keller lifts his glass. “To lap dances that turn into lifelong commitments!”

I ignore him.Fuck.I need a break. Some air.

Some space to think without their voices in my ears and the memory of Cassie’s laugh echoing through my hungover brain.

I duck out of the restaurant, sunglasses still on. My head throbs, the coffee I just inhaled doing jack shit. Each step I take through the hotel's winding corridors toward the casino feels heavy.

Maybe a few hands of blackjack will clear my mind.

The marriage certificate weighs heavy in my pocket. I pull it out, unfold it just enough to see our names side by side again.Jackson Holt and Cassie Hawthorne.

I'm tucking it back when a deep voice stops me cold.

"You're Jackson Holt, right?"

I look up to find Blake Maddox—theBlake Maddox, captain of the Iron Ridge Icehawks—standing in front of me like he materialized from the holographic hockey card I had of him when I was a kid.

He's dressed in black joggers and an Icehawks team hoodie, sipping black coffee from a paper cup, looking completely at ease.

"Holy shit," I blurt before I can stop myself. "I mean… yes, sir. That's me."

Blake's laugh is warm and genuine. "Drop the 'sir.' Makes me feel ancient." He extends his hand. "Blake Maddox. Captain of the Icehawks."

"I know." I shake his hand, hoping mine isn't sweating right now. "I've been watching you play since I was ten."

"Thanks, man. And from what I hear, you might be wearing our jersey soon." He gestures toward a small seating area tucked away from the main corridor. "Actually, you got a minute?"

My heart hammers against my ribs.

Blake Maddox wants to talk to me. Blake Maddox knows who I am.

We sit, and he leans back, completely relaxed. "Draft's got the whole league buzzing. Your name especially."

"That's what they tell me." I try to match his casual tone and fail miserably.

"The YouTube videos don't lie. Your edge work is something else." He takes a sip of his coffee. "But I'm guessing you've heard that from every scout in North America."

"It's still surreal coming from you."

Blake studies me for a moment. "How are you handling the pressure? Being the golden boy isn't always easy."

"I'm—" I start to give the standard media answer Madison has trained me to give, then stop myself. "Honestly? It's fucking terrifying."

This earns me another laugh. "Good answer. Honest. The boys will appreciate that."

"The boys?"

"The team back home." Blake leans forward slightly. "Listen, the draft's all politics and showmanship. But inside the locker room? That's real. The boys want to meet the league's next poster boy." He lowers his voice. "Michael Hawthorne won't shut up about it."

My stomach drops. "Michael…Hawthorne?"

"Yeah, our CEO. Man's convinced you're the missing piece to our trophy cabinet." Blake takes another sip of coffee. "Between us, I think he's right. Might take you a few years to get up to speed, but you'll get there."

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