Page 40 of Pucked In Vegas

She exhales and presses her cheek against my chest again, like maybe if she stays quiet, we can pretend tonight still exists outside the mess waiting for us tomorrow.

And I let her.

Because you know what… I’m not ready either.

Chapter Ten

Cassie

Iwake slowly, cocooned in delicious warmth.

Jackson's arms wrap around me like I'm something precious, something he's afraid I might vanish. His chest rises and falls against my back, his breath tickling my neck.

For a moment, I just let myself feel this—the weight of his arm draped across my waist, his legs tangled with mine, the sheets twisted around us both.

I shouldn't stay. I know that. But I allow myself these stolen minutes to memorize everything about him.

Carefully, I turn in his arms until I'm facing him. He mumbles something incoherent but doesn't wake, just pulls me closer. My fingers hover over his chest, then trace the tattoo on his ribs.Prove Them Wrong. Three simple words inked in black. What demons is he fighting? Who does he need to prove wrong?

I want to know everything about him. That's the scariest part.

My fingers continue their exploration, trailing over a scar near his shoulder—the kind hockey players get from being slammedinto boards. Another mark across his collarbone that looks surgical. His body tells stories I'm afraid to hear.

Because hearing them means acknowledging what I already suspect. What I've been avoiding since I left Iron Ridge and begun my self-imposed path to a life free from my fathers shadow.

Jackson Holt is a hockey player.

All the signs are there, right before my eyes.

I flatten my palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my hand. Strong. Steady. Just like him.

My eyes trace the contours of his face. The strong jaw now covered in morning stubble, those unfairly long eyelashes, the lips that were everywhere last night.

God, last night.

The memory, theactualmemory that isn't lost in a haze of drunkenness.

His hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world...

I press my thighs together, heat blooming low in my belly.

I could wake him up. Could slide my hand lower, past the ridges of his abs, wrap my fingers around his deliciously big dick and watch those green eyes flutter open with desire.

Instead, I memorize his face. The tiny scar through his left eyebrow. The way his hair sticks up at odd angles. The softness around his mouth when he sleeps.

What would it be like if this were real? If I could wake up like this every morning, tangled in his arms, his body curved protectively around mine?

But that's a fantasy. Because if he's who I think he is, then this—us—is impossible.

I've spent five years building a life outside hockey. Five years proving I'm more than Big Mike's daughter. Five years becomingCassie Hawthorne, event producer, not Cassie Hawthorne, hockey princess.

And yesterday, standing in that event room, giving orders, working the room—it felt like slipping on an old coat. Comfortable. Familiar.

Terrifying.

Because I was good at it. Because it felt right. Because maybe I've been running from the wrong thing all along.

I carefully extract myself from Jackson's arms, needing space to think. Jackson stirs, his brow furrowing.

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