Page 28 of Pucked In Vegas

Now I just have to convince the rest of Vegas that it’s true.

I slide my card across the counter, leave a ridiculous tip, and smile as I step out into the dry Vegas heat.

And that’s when I see it.

A newly laid out, massive, glossy poster slapped on a billboard outside the hotel.NHL DRAFT WEEKEND: Produced by Big Mike’s Daughter.

"You're kidding," I growl to myself.

NotCassie Hawthorne. NotIndependent Event Producer Extraordinaire. JustBig Mike’s Daughter, like I’m some spoiled hockey princess with a clipboard.

Heat floods my cheeks. I mutter a curse under my breath and shove my phone back into my bag. I take a steadying breath, remind myself this is temporary, and force my feet forward toward the event room.

Soon, the doors swing open to a world I deliberately left behind. Workers swarm like ants, transforming the space into hockey heaven… or my personal hell.

A colossal ice sculpture of a puck glistens under temporary spotlights. NHL logos stretch across every available surface. Step-and-repeats with sponsor logos line one wall, ready for this weekend's media circus.

"Cassie Hawthorne?" A woman with a sleek bob and a tablet approaches. "I'm Dana Prescott, NHL Events."

Her handshake is firm, no-nonsense. I match it.

"Your father mentioned you'd be taking over." Dana taps her tablet. "Honestly, we're thrilled. When the other company pulled out last minute, we were scrambling. But your name came up, and Big Mike practically teleported your file to my inbox."

I nod, keeping my expression neutral despite the mention of my father. "I understand the timeline is tight."

"That's putting it mildly." Dana gestures around the ballroom. "We need someone who knows hockey culture. The optics, the flow, what the players expect."

We walk past a crew installing LED panels that will showcase highlight reels of the prospects. The familiar smell hits me. That unique blend of temporary carpet adhesive, fresh paint, and the faint whiff of testosterone that seems to permeate all hockey events.

"The commissioner arrives tomorrow for a pre-walk," Dana continues. "After that, we have the prospects meet-and-greet, media day, the family dinner, and then—"

"The actual draft," I finish. "I'm familiar with the schedule."

Dana's eyebrow arches. "Of course you are. You stepped in at just the right time. Nice to have contacts in the industry, huh?"

There it is. The assumption. Everything I've tried to escape ever since I left Iron Ridge.

I'm not here because I'm good. I'm here because I'm Big Mike's daughter.

I swallow the retort building in my throat.

"Let's review the flow," I say instead, pulling out my own tablet.

Dana walks me through the space, pointing out where the prospects will sit, where the team tables will be positioned, the green room setup. It's all coming back to me—the pageantry, the traditions, the ridiculous excess of it all.

“Media’s gonna eat this up." She gestures toward the stage area, where technicians are fussing with a lighting rig. "You’ve got a full backstage crew, dedicated PR liaisons, and three on-site stylists for the top ten picks.”

I nod, making a show of scribbling notes.

"We'll need you to coordinate with the broadcast team," Dana says, handing me a script. "The MC's lines need approval by tomorrow morning."

I scan the document, trying to focus.

But across the ballroom, a group of men in suits—team executives, by the look of them—laugh loudly. One slaps another on the back. Just like they used to do in my father's office. Just like they did when I was sixteen and bringing coffee to my father's meetings, trying to prove I belonged. Trying to get… well,here.

"...and you'll stand here during the first round," Dana is saying, pointing to a mark on the floor. "When each team makes their selection, you'll escort the player from the green room to the stage."

“Totally,” I say, like I haven’t spent the last five years running charity galas and celebrity parties just tonotbe around hockey ever again.

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