Page 29 of Pucked In Vegas

"The photographers will want shots of you with the top prospects," Dana continues. "Especially with the Icehawks' pick. Your father thinks—"

"I'll coordinate with the photography team directly," I interrupt, my voice sharper than intended.

Dana blinks, then nods. "You really struck gold with this gig. Most event planners would kill for this level of access."

I focus on my tablet, gripping it so tightly my knuckles whiten. The room suddenly feels too warm, too loud, too familiar.

A group of reporters walk by, already gossiping about which team might trade up for a better pick. Two executives discuss contract terms in hushed voices by the bar setup.

This world. This fucking world that reduced me to "Big Mike's daughter" for years.

And here I am, right back in it.

"The commissioner specifically requested you handle the VIP reception at the after party," Dana says, mistaking my silence for interest. "Seriously, I told you everyone's thrilled to have Big Mike's daughter running things."

I paste on my most professional smile, even as I scream internally.

I'm more than just his daughter.

But one big financial crisis later, here I am… right back where I started.

"Okay. I'll need the final guest list by tonight," I say, voice calm despite the storm inside me. "And the security protocols for the VIP section."

Dana nods approvingly. "You really do know your stuff."

I do. That's the worst part. I know this world inside and out. I was raised in it, shaped by it, and spent years trying to escape it.

And now it's pulled me back in, like it always knew it would.

"Okay. The lighting needs to be adjusted for the team logos," Dana says, pointing toward the main stage.

I nod, pretending to make a note on my tablet, but the words blur together. My mind drifts to annulment paperwork and how quickly I can file it once this weekend is over.

"And the walkway needs—"

Suddenly Dana's voice fades and something electric pulses through me. That feeling when you're being watched.

I glance up, scanning the crowded ballroom.

There, leaning against the wall near the hallway leading to the press rooms, is Jax. My husband. Jackson Holt. In black jeans that hug his thighs and a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled to showcase forearms that make my thighs automatically squeeze together.

Oh god. What is he doing here?

Our eyes lock across the room. His sultry gaze pins me in place, the corner of his mouth lifting in that same crooked smile that convinced me to say "I do" to a stranger.

The room keeps moving—crew members hauling equipment, executives in suits clustered in conversation—but everything slows down around us.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

"The commissioner wants the prospects to enter from this side," Dana continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. "We'll need you to coordinate with security about—"

I can't look away from him. He pushes off the wall, standing taller. The movement highlights the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength in his frame.

And that's when it hits me.

He has the body of a…no. He can't be.

But the roomisfull of them. Tall men, like him, hardened with muscles upon muscles.

---