Page 52 of Pucked In Vegas

"Supply inventory," Jackson finishes smoothly, not looking even slightly flustered. No wonder he's the top draft pick. "Making sure we have everything we need for tonight."

The intern nods uncertainly, clearly not buying our bullshit. "Okay... well, I just need some of this tape..."

I bolt past both of them, mumbling something about urgent catering issues, and flee down the hallway with as much dignity as I can muster.

Which, right now, is approximately zero.

I escape Jackson, buying myself some time to think. I find a spot, hidden behind the main stage curtains, watching the final preparations unfold while trying to get my heart rate back to something resembling normal.

The venue is filling with VIPs, team executives, and media personnel. The energy is electric. Everything I've worked for is about to culminate in one perfect evening.

But I can't do this. I can't be here to watch the man of my dreams become my biggest nightmare.

I find Dana near the main sound booth, frantically coordinating with the broadcast team who will go live any minute now.

"Dana. Change of plans," I announce.

She looks up, eyebrows raised. "Now? Are you sure? We're minutes from showtime, girl."

"I'm switching who announces the final draft pick," I continue, ignoring the way my chest feels like it's caving in. "It won't be me."

Dana blinks, clearly confused. "But your father specifically requested—"

"My father will understand," I lie smoothly. "You'll have to handle the announcement."

The decision settles over me with surprising calm.

This is what I'm good at. Damage control, strategic retreats, protecting myself before anyone else can do the protecting for me.

I ran from Iron Ridge, and now, I'm running from Vegas. Fromhim.

By the time Jackson takes that stage tonight, I'll be nothing but a signature on an annulment certificate and a memory he can bury as deep as his agent wants.

And maybe, just maybe… I'll finally be free.

Either that, or I'll be alone forever, living with nothing but regret.

Chapter Thirteen

Jackson

Istand behind the curtain, thirty seconds from being called the number one draft pick in the NHL, and all I can think about is how I lost her.

The cameras are ready. The Icehawks are ready. Hell, I’msupposedto be ready.

But I’m not.

"Two minutes, Mr. Holt." A production assistant with a headset pokes her head behind the curtain. "They'll call you after the commissioner's final words."

I nod, adjusting my tie for the tenth time. My fingers brush against the inside pocket of my jacket, where Cassie's annulment papers still sit, folded and unsigned, worn at the creases from being opened and closed so many times.

This should be the best night of my life.

Everything I've worked for since I was five years old, shooting pucks in the backyard while Dad yelled "again!" from the porch, beer in hand.

Everything I promised myself I'd achieve when I left home at seventeen, determined to be more than just another hockey story gone wrong.

But all I can think about is Cassie.

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