Page 6 of Pucked In Vegas

She catches me looking and doesn't turn away. I raise my beer in a silent toast, hoping she can't see the way my heart rate kicks up.

Because damn, if I'm making a list of last-freedom mistakes to make in Vegas, she'd be right at the top.

She's on her phone, gesturing wildly, her face animated as she talks.

But there's something else there, too. Like she's trying her hardest to hide a sadness that still somehow tugs at her pretty features between smiles.

I lean back in the pool, trying my hardest to ignore her as my friends bicker between themselves.

She orders a drink. Then another. And another.

It's like she's trying to drown the world out, and fuck… I get that. Ireallyget that.

I know the feeling all too well, drinking to quiet the noise. I did it plenty after games when Dad would pick apart every mistake instead of noticing the three goals I'd scored. Did it the night I found out he'd pawned Mom's wedding ring—the only thing of hers I had left—to cover gambling debts. Did it when scouts started showing up and the pressure crushed down so hard I couldn't breathe.

The rink was my escape, but sometimes even ice can't cool the burn of being someone's meal ticket, someone's second chance, someone's redemption story.

Everyone sees Jackson Holt, hockey prodigy.

They see the stats, the highlight reels, the cocky grin. Nobody sees the kid who learned to cook mac and cheese at nine because Dad was "celebrating" at the bar again.

Nobody knows about the nights I'd sneak out to the frozen pond behind our house at 2 AM, shooting pucks until my hands bled, because it was easier than lying awake listening to Dad's drunken promises about how "this time" he'd get it right.

I became good at hockey because I had to.

It wasn't just a dream… it was my only way out.

"Earth to Jax," Donovan waves a hand in front of my face. "You listening?"

"Huh? Yeah, sure."

"He's not," Keller laughs, following my gaze. "He's got draft brain. Or more likely, draft dick."

Madison sighs. "Remember our deal, Jackson. Low profile. Nothing stupid, okay?"

I nod absently, still watching as the blonde continues animatedly talking on the phone. She tucks her legs underneath her, sipping her cocktail, looking out at the same Vegas skyline I was just admiring.

She's fucking gorgeous.

"So I told Coach that his systems were prehistoric, and—" Donovan's story fades into background noise.

The woman adjusts her position, and her sunglasses tumble from her head onto the deck. She doesn't notice, too absorbed in her phone call. And her third cocktail.

I stand up, setting my beer down and pushing up out of the pool.

"Where are you going?" Madison asks, suspicion in her voice as she watches me towel down all too quickly.

"Doing my good deed for the day," I say, tossing the towel down, already moving. "Be right back."

"Jackson—" she starts, but I'm already halfway around the pool.

My heart pounds as I approach.

Up close, she's even more stunning. Ice blue eyes that flash with intelligence, sun-kissed skin that practically glows. She's older than me, maybe in her late-twenties, with a presence that says she's seen some shit and come out stronger.

I pick up her sunglasses, recognizing the designer logo. Expensive taste.

"Excuse me."

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