1
JAKE
Vegas Vows
The neon pulse of Las Vegas isn’t a heartbeat; it’s a migraine in a tuxedo.
Everything about this city offends my sensibilities.
I like structure. I like the predictable physics of a puck hitting the back of the net and the rigid discipline of a morning skate at 5:00 AM. I like systems.
But here, in the VIP lounge ofOmnia, the only system is chaos, and the only physics involve how much expensive champagne you can drink.
"Captain! Drink!" Connor Hayes, our rookie forward and a man who possesses the impulse control of a golden retriever on espresso, shoves a glass into my hand.
"I’m good, Connor," I say, my voice straining to be heard over the bass that’s currently vibrating my ribcage.
"You are not good. You are boring!" Connor shouts, throwing an arm around my neck.
"It is Rhys’s bachelor party. The 'Rocket' is getting launched into holy matrimony. You must celebrate or I will tell Coach you are actually a robot programmed only to calculate puck possession percentages."
I sigh, taking a sip of the liquid fire. It’s top-shelf scotch, but in this heat, it tastes like regret.
Rhys is across the booth, looking deliriously happy and spectacularly drunk, Elara’s name probably tattooed on his heart and—given the state of him—possibly about to be tattooed on his ass if we don’t keep an eye on him.
I’m the Captain of the Metro Raptors.
It’s my job to keep an eye on everyone. I’m the designated adult, the one who ensures the rookies don't end up in a desert ditch and the veterans don't blow their signing bonuses on a single hand of blackjack.
But tonight, the air is thick with the scent of ozone and expensive perfume, and the scotch is starting to blur the sharp edges of my discipline.
I feel... restless. It’s not just the noise. It’s the weight of the ‘C’ on my jersey—metaphorically speaking—that never seems to come off.
"I need air," I mutter, untangling myself from Connor’s bear hug.
"Air is for people who aren't winning!" Connor yells after me, already distracted by a tray of sliders.
I push through the crowd, my height acting as a prow.
People part for me, mostly because I’m built like a brick wall and currently wearing a look that suggests I might demolish anyone in my path.
I find the exit toward the terrace, my head spinning slightly.
Maybe I’ve had more than two drinks. Maybe it was four.
I’m halfway to the door when the world tilts.
Oof.
A blur of bright, aggressive yellow slams into my chest.
It’s like being hit by a rogue winger, except this winger smells like vanilla and wild strawberries.
My scotch—the one I didn't even want—decides to migrate from my glass to the front of my white button-down.
"Watch it," I snap, my hand instinctively reaching out to steady the person who just tackled my sternum.
"Watch it yourself, Hercules," a sharp, melodic voice fires back.
