Page 44 of Pucked In Vegas

The annulment papers, sitting on the nightstand like a fucking execution notice. Signed in her careful handwriting. Final. Done.

"What the hell," I breathe, grabbing the documents, standing buck-ass naked in the hotel room, my jaw dropping to the fucking floor.

Her signature stares back at me, all neat loops and decisive strokes. Like there was no hesitation. No second thoughts.

JustCassie Hawthornein black ink, ending whatever this was before it could become something real.

I sit down, running my hands through my hair, trying to piece together what happened.

Last night was...Christ. Last night was everything. The way she looked at me, the way she felt in my arms, the way she whispered my name like it meant something.

And now she's gone.

Like it never happened.

My chest feels hollow, scraped raw. I've been hit by defensemen who could bench-press trucks, but this? This is a different kind of pain. The kind that settles in your bones and makes it hard to breathe.

I grab my phone, hoping for a text. An explanation. Anything.

Nothing.

"Fuck," I mutter, tossing the phone aside.

The rational part of my brain—the part that sounds suspiciously like Madison's agent voice—reminds me this is probably for the best.

It's the perfect clean break. With absolutely no complications.

I'm free to focus on the draft and get on with my career.

But the rest of me, the part that's been thinking about Cassie every second since I met her, wants to hunt her down and demand answers. Why did she run? What changed between last night and this morning?

I check the time on my phone. 9:47 AM.

Shit.

I'm supposed to meet Blake Maddox and the Iron Ridge team in thirteen minutes. The most important meeting of my career, and I'm sitting here naked and heartbroken, staring at annulment papers like they might rearrange themselves into a love letter.

I force myself out of bed, shoving the papers into my jacket pocket.

I'm not signing them. Not yet.

Not until I get answers.

The elevator to the Icehawks private team suite feels different to how I thought it would when I'm about to meet my heroes. Every floor that passes is another second to pull my shit together, to transform from Jackson-the-heartbroken-idiot into Jackson-Holt-future-NHL-superstar.

By the time the doors open, I've managed to arrange my face into something resembling confidence.

"Jackson!" Blake Maddox rises from a leather chair, extending his hand with that easy captain's smile I've watched on highlight reels for years. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," I say, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

The suite is ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip, a full bar, seating for twenty. And scattered around the room are some of the biggest names in hockey, just... sitting there. Drinking coffee. Being human.

"Come on, meet the boys," Blake says, guiding me deeper into the room.

I'm introduced to legends like they're just regular guys.

Hunter Brody, the head coach, looks me up and down with the calculating stare of someone who's seen every type of player and can spot weakness from a mile away. But his handshake is firm, approving.

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