Pucking Hitched (Metro Raptors #1)

Chapter 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 of Omnia, 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.

I look down.

Standing there, clutching a tiny gold clutch and looking entirely unbothered by the fact that she’s currently wearing a dress the color of a highlighter, is a woman who barely reaches my chin.

She has a halo of blonde hair that’s slightly windswept and eyes the color of a frozen lake in mid-January.

"You ran into me," I say, gesturing to the dark stain spreading across my shirt. "This was custom-made."

She looks at the stain, then up at me, popping a bubble of gum. "And I’m sure your tailor will be devastated. But you were walking like you owned the hallway, Mr. Grump. Some of us are just trying to navigate the minefield of bachelor parties out there."

“Mr. Grump?” I echo, a dry huff slipping out. “I’m allowed to be grumpy. You ruined my shirt.”

“And I’m the one with a bruised shoulder,” she shoots back, stepping closer like she’s ready to present evidence.

She doesn't look intimidated. Most people, when faced with six-foot-three of annoyed hockey player, tend to apologize.

She looks like she’s contemplating poking me with a stick just to see what happens. "You’ve got a very serious forehead, you know that? Very... structural. You need to let a little sunshine in."

"I don't need 'sunshine,'" I say, my voice dropping an octave. The scotch is definitely hitting now, because the way her blue eyes are dancing is making it very hard to stay annoyed. "I need a dry cleaner."

"Well, Sunshine is standing right here," she says with a wicked, dimpled smile. "And Sunshine thinks you look like you haven't had a single bit of fun since the Clinton administration."

"I have fun," I lie. My idea of fun is a clean sheet and a well-executed power play.

"Liar." She tilts her head. "You’re one of those 'controlled' guys, aren't you? Everything in its place. Perfect hair. Perfect scowl. I bet you even fold your socks by color."

"It’s efficient," I grunt.

She laughs, and the sound is dangerous. It’s light and infectious, and for a second, the heavy weight of the Raptors’ upcoming season feels like it’s lifting.

She doesn't know who I am. She doesn't see the Captain; she just sees a guy in a stained shirt.

"Tell you what, Hercules," she says, grabbing my wrist. Her skin is warm, and the contact sends a jolt straight to my gut. "I feel bad about the shirt. Not really, but let’s pretend. Let me buy you a shot to fix that attitude."

"I should go back to my friends," I say, though I make zero effort to move.

"Your 'friends' will survive without their babysitter for a while. Come on. One shot. Unless you’re scared of a little tequila?"

I should say no. I should turn around, find Rhys, and go back to the hotel. But the way she’s looking at me—like I’m a challenge she’s already won—grates against my competitive nature.

“I’m not scared of anything, Sunshine,” I say, leaning down until we’re eye to eye.

“Prove it.”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

She spins on her heel and leads me deeper into the neon belly of the club, toward a secondary bar tucked away from the main dance floor.

She signals the bartender, orders two shots of something clear and lethal-looking, and before I can object, she slides one toward me.

“To the shirt,” she says, clinking her glass against mine.

“To the shirt,” I mutter, tossing it back. It burns all the way down, a searing trail of liquid confidence settling in my chest.

She watches me over the rim of her own glass as she downs hers without even flinching.

“You do that a lot?” I ask.

“Do what?”

“Order drinks like you’re issuing a challenge.”

She shrugs. “Only when the company looks like it needs loosening up.”

“I don’t need loosening up.”

Her gaze drops to my hand, where I’m crushing the napkin like it personally insulted my bloodline.

“This napkin would disagree.”

I glance down, then deliberately relax my grip, smoothing it out on the bar like that proves a point.

I rest one elbow against the counter and turn toward her. “So who are you here with?”

She studies me for a beat, then smiles slowly. “No one.”

I frown. “No one?”

“I’m here alone.”

I glance toward the dance floor, the crowd, the drunk guys hovering like moths around any woman in a dress. “You came out alone.”

“Yes.”

“To a club.”

“Yes.”

“In Vegas.”

She leans her hip against the bar, clearly entertained. “Your powers of deduction are dazzling.”

I ignore that. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you out alone?”

She traces the rim of her empty shot glass with one finger. “Why not?”

“Because,” I say evenly, “most people don’t come to a place like this alone.”

“I just wanted to have fun tonight.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Do you really think that’s safe?”

“I can handle myself,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Now, let’s find a place where the music doesn’t sound like a construction site. I know a spot three blocks over.”

I should be heading back to the VIP booth and Rhys’s bachelor party. “I really should get back.”

“Come on. Live a little, Hercules.”

“I am living,” I argue.

Her hands slide from my shirt to my chest, fingers splayed over my sternum like she’s checking for a pulse.

“I bet,” she says softly, “you’ve never done anything truly stupid.”

I laugh, offended. “And that’s a bad thing? People rely on me. I have responsibilities. I don’t have the luxury of doing something stupid. It wouldn’t just affect me.”

She studies me this time, no mockery in her gaze. Just curiosity.

“Ah,” she says quietly. “So you’re noble.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re twenty-something and built like a Greek god, standing in the middle of Vegas at two in the morning,” she counters. “You’re allowed one bad decision.”

And because I must be more drunk than I thought, I follow the flash of yellow out of the club and into the night.

The shift from air-conditioned bass-thumping chaos to thick, dry Vegas heat hits like a wall, but Sunshine doesn’t slow down.

A streetlight flickers overhead, casting gold over her hair and that sinful yellow dress that should honestly be illegal in at least twelve states. It hugs her curves like it was stitched with bad intentions.

She weaves through tourists on the sidewalk, occasionally catching my hand to pull me along.

We hit a dive bar, then another, the night blurring together as the tequila and the scotch hold a summit in my brain.

By the time we’re stumbling out of the third bar, my laughter is louder than I’ve ever heard it.

She’s currently doing a terrible, exaggerated version of a dance she saw a guy doing inside, and I’m leaning against a lamppost, watching her with a grin that feels permanent.

"You are a terrible dancer," I shout, the sound echoing off the buildings.

"I am an expressive dancer!" she yells back, stumbling toward me and grabbing my lapels. "You, on the other hand, are standing there like a statue. A very handsome, very grumpy statue."

We turn a corner, leaving the main strip behind for a street lined with flickering pink and blue signs.

Somehow, I don’t feel like myself tonight.

It has to be the mix of alcohol, recklessness, and her laughter, which is its own kind of intoxication.