Page 48 of Pucked In Vegas

The massive Stanley Cup replica catches the light perfectly now, casting prismatic rainbows across the floor. Around me, the venue hums with controlled chaos. Florists arrange centerpieces, sound techs run final checks on equipment, and interns scurry around with tablets and headsets attached to their skulls like they're coordinating a goddamn space mission.

It's magnificent.

Every detail, every angle, every fucking flower petal is exactly where it should be.

And I did this. All of it.

Not Big Mike's daughter. Not some hockey princess with a trust fund and daddy's connections.

Me.

Cassie Hawthorne, Vegas event producer extraordinaire.

"This is next-level, Cass," Dana appears at my elbow, her usual composed demeanor cracked with genuine admiration. "I've been to a hundred of these events, and this..." She gestures around the transformed ballroom. "This is art."

I should feel proud. Vindicated, even.

Like I've finally proven that I'm more than my father's legacy.

Instead, my stomach churns like I've been drinking expired milk.

Because across the room, surrounded by a swarm of reporters and camera crews, stands Jackson Holt in a perfectly tailored navy suit. His hair is styled just messy enough to look effortless, his smile bright and media-trained as he answers questions I can't hear but probably revolve around his "bright future with the Iron Ridge Icehawks."

He looks like every puck bunnies wet dream. Polished. Professional. Ready to become the face of a franchise in a matter of hours.

He also looks fucking edible, and my traitorous body responds with a flutter of heat low in my belly that I absolutely do not have time for right now.

Focus, Cassie. He's just another player. Just another pretty face with good hands and—

His eyes find mine across the crowded room like he's got some kind of radar system specifically tuned to my frequency. Even with fifty people between us, even with reporters shoving microphones in his face, his gaze locks onto mine with a look that makes my breath catch.

The memory of those same eyes staring down at me last night, pupils blown wide with desire as he moved inside me, flashes through my mind with almost…pornographicclarity.

Fuck. Get it together, Cassie.

I duck behind the ice sculpture, pressing my back against the cool surface and cursing my entire life.

"Just, um… Checking lighting symmetry," I announce to my bewildered assistant, who definitely knows I'm hiding like a teenager avoiding her ex at prom.

My phone buzzes as Mia's face flashes on the screen. Of course she's calling now. My world is imploding, and her timing is perfect. As always.

"What do you want, Mia?" I answer abruptly, sneaking a look behind the sculpture when I hear Jackson's deep laugh from across the room.

"Please tell me you're not hiding from your accidental husband again," Mia's voice chirps through the speaker, way too cheerful for someone who should be taking this situation seriously.

"He's not my—" I start, then catch myself before I scream profanities in front of the catering staff. "Shut up, Mia."

"Oh honey," she laughs, and I can practically see her shit-eating grin through the phone. "You totally are."

"I'm working," I hiss, moving deeper behind the sculpture. "This is the biggest event of my career, and I'm not about to let some... some hockey player with abs and a superiority complex ruin it for me."

"Abs and a superiority complex?" Mia's voice goes up an octave. "That's oddly specific. Sophia's coming over. We're ready to watch your show on ESPN. Wave to us, won't you?"

"I have to go," I cut her off, because the last thing I need is the knowledge that if I fuck this up tonight, the entire country will be watching.

But before I can hang up, a familiar voice booms behind me.

"Cassie!"

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