Page 45 of Pucked In Vegas

"Heard good things about your work ethic," he says gruffly. "That's what matters in Iron Ridge."

Logan Kane stands in the corner, all six-foot-five of intimidating enforcer energy. He gives me a nod that somehow feels like acceptance. The scar running from his temple to his cheekbone makes him look like he's been through wars, but his eyes are surprisingly warm.

"Welcome to the family," he says simply.

Connor Walsh, the goalie, is sprawled in a chair with a coffee mug that reads "The Pucks Stop Here." He grins and winks when he sees me looking at it.

"My girlfriend got it for me," he explains. "She thinks she's hilarious."

"She's not wrong," says Ryder Scott, the youngest guy in the room besides me. He looks maybe twenty-four, with an easy smile and the kind of energy that screams rookie who hasn't been beaten down by the league yet. "Wait until you meet Lucy. She's a menace."

"Ryder's our current baby," Blake explains. "You'll take that title soon enough."

"Gladly," I say, and mean it.

This is everything I dreamed about as a kid shooting pucks in my backyard at 2 AM. Being accepted by guys like this. Being treated as an equal instead of just potential.

"So," Connor leans forward, "you ready for tonight? Ready to become Iron Ridge's golden boy?"

"Been ready my whole life," I answer automatically.

And it's true. This moment—sitting with these legends, being welcomed into their world—should be the culmination of everything I've worked for.

So why does it feel incomplete?

Why can't I stop thinking about blue eyes and the way Cassie's hair looked spread across my pillow?

"The kid's got that look," Logan observes. "Like he's seen some shit."

"Haven't we all," Hunter, the coach, mutters.

Blake settles back in his chair. "Draft night's a mind-fuck, even when you know where you're going. One minute you're a prospect, the next you're property of an organization. Your whole life changes in thirty seconds."

"Any advice?" I ask.

"Yeah," Connor grins. "Don't let the pressure get to you. And definitely don't do anything stupid before the ceremony. No Vegas marriages or DUIs or—"

My stomach drops like I've been checked into the boards.

"—not that we're worried about you," Connor continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. "You seem like you've got your head on straight."

Vegas marriages.The words echo in my skull.

Blake starts talking about team culture, about what it means to wear the Iron Ridge jersey. The other guys chime in with stories, advice, jokes. I nod at the right moments, ask appropriate questions, but part of my brain is stuck on those annulment papers burning a hole in my pocket.

"I heard that the event coordinator really outdid herself this time," Ryder says, gesturing toward the windows where we can see the arena setup below. "Everything looks incredible. We're in for a good night boys."

"Big Mike's daughter knows her stuff," Connor adds. "Always has."

I freeze.

Big Mike's daughter.

The confirmation I've been dreading since Blake first mentioned the name Hawthorne the other day. I've known this moment was possible—hell, I've known it wasprobable—but hearing it confirmed makes it real in a way that turns my blood to ice.

Cassie Hawthorne. The woman whose annulment papers are burning a hole in my pocket.

The daughter of the man who's about to make me the face of his franchise.

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