Page 25 of Pucked In Vegas

Despite the heavy compliments from one of my favorite players of all time… suddenly, I can't breathe.

Michael Hawthorne.Hawthorne. Cassie Hawthorne.

A flash of memory hits me. The image of Cassie panicking in the hotel room this morning:"My dad will literally throw pucks at people."

"You okay?" Blake asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Fine," I manage. "Just... processing it all."

"Well, if you're up for it, swing by our team suite tomorrow night. Informal thing. No media, no bullshit. Just hockey guys talking shit."

"That's—that would be amazing," I say automatically, my brain still short-circuiting.

Hawthorne…

Blake stands, claps me on the shoulder. "Good meeting you, Holt. Looking forward to seeing what you bring to the table."

"You too. Thank you." The words come out robotically as my mind races.

He walks away, and I sit frozen in place.

Cassie Hawthorne. Michael Hawthorne. Iron Ridge Icehawks.

Holy fucking shit.

I married the CEO's daughter. Of the team that's about to draft me.

What. The actual.Fuck.

The realization hits me like a crosscheck to the ribs. That's what she meant by her dad throwing pucks. That's why "Hawthorne" sounded familiar.

It wasn't just any random Vegas hookup—it was Cassie Hawthorne.

I pull out the marriage certificate again, staring at her name like it might change if I look hard enough.

This isn't just messy. This could be career-ending before it even starts.

I stand up, my legs unsteady.

I walk straight to the blackjack table. I need a distraction, something to stop the spiral of panic threatening to overwhelm me.

The casino floor buzzes with white noise as I drop into the empty seat at the blackjack table. Red velvet stretches beneath my fingertips, my hands still shaking from the shock.

I place my chips in the betting circle, my movements almost robotic right now.

The dealer nods, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and quick hands. We're alone at the table. Just me, her, and the thoughts screaming through my head.

"Good luck, sir," she says, dealing me two cards face down.

Cassie Hawthorne. The CEO's daughter.

I close my eyes and her face materializes. Those ice-blue eyes that saw straight through me. The way her silky hair fell across her bare shoulders in the club. How she threw her head back when she laughed, like she was surprised by her own joy.

The memory of her lips against mine outside the chapel sends electricity down my spine.

"Sir? Your cards."

I stare at the backs of the cards, not touching them yet.

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