12. Cassy
Chapter twelve
Cassy
T he last couple of days have been... horrible. And I’m not saying that lightly.
Dad’s been nice. Like weirdly nice. Suspiciously polite, like he’s been abducted and replaced with some overly charming humanoid robot that doesn’t threaten people. That alone should’ve made national news.
Meanwhile, Blake has called and texted so many times I’ve lost count. I haven’t picked up once. Mostly because if I hear his voice right now, I might scream, cry, throw something, or worse, melt. And we are not melting.
And now here I am, sitting in a boardroom, stuck in a meeting with the Aces’ latest shiny signing from the New York Tigers, some guy named Jett Lawson who plays center. Because that’s what my life needs right now. Another hockey player.
I glance at the wall clock. An hour and a half in.
The room still hums with that over-caffeinated buzz of strategy talk and soft keyboard clatter.
Everyone’s comfortably in character, Valerie with her clipboard, Riley in Power Mode, Holly with three different browser tabs open, and still managing to finish everyone’s sentences.
Across from me, Jett is lounging with that kind of relaxed posture that screams athlete, but his eyes are sharp. His agent, Manny Eliasch, leans in like he’s about to suggest the guy run for office or get his own sneaker line.
Valerie finally stops her monologue on branding expectations, and I tap my pen against my notes. “Alright. Last few things to iron out.” I turn to Jett. “First interview drops tomorrow. Riley’ll handle your media stuff, she’s your go-to for anything press-related.”
Riley gives a quick nod. “That means we’ll pre-screen the bigger outlets. ESPN, local Vegas media, NHL Network, they’ll want quick comments on your transition from New York. Nothing heavy. Are you comfortable with that?”
Jett runs his hand along the brim of the Aces cap we gave him twenty minutes ago. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just make sure I don't get any of the ‘Why didn’t it work in New York?’ stuff, right?”
Smart. I can work with that. “Not unless you want to address it. Otherwise, we keep it focused on Vegas, opportunity, fresh start.”
From my left, Holly chimes in, “The website announcement article goes live at noon tomorrow. Feature piece and intro video go up across our platforms. Mikey’s editing now.”
Mikey doesn’t look up. He just scrolls through footage like a man surgically on a mission. “Almost done with the edit. Fast cuts, high-energy, and some Vegas city shots to frame it. Should sell the ‘new beginnings’ vibe.”
Perfect. My phone buzzes.
Of course, it’s him. Blake.
I decline it. Silently. Without blinking. Without feeling. Without smashing the phone into the conference table. Growth.
Andrew leans forward and holds up his phone. “Draft welcome post: ‘Welcome to Vegas, Jett Lawson! Ready to shine in the City of Lights.’ First one drops in the morning, then we’ll hit with behind-the-scenes content. Sound good?”
Jett gives a small grin. “Yeah, sounds good. Not too flashy.”
Manny laughs. “You’re in Vegas now. Flashy is kind of the thing. Normal.”
The room laughs. I don’t. I keep it moving.
“Okay, last notes. Tarquin and Suzanna will handle the press release. Calam, grab some shots of Jett for our media bank before he leaves.”
Calam throws up a thumbs-up from behind his camera bag.
Valerie looks over. “Jett, anything you need to tweak, any concerns?”
He shakes his head. “I think we’re good. Just tell me where to be and when.”
Valerie stands, and it’s the universal sign that the meeting is done. “You’ve got a solid team here, Jett. Media-wise, we’ll make sure this is smooth for you. Welcome to Vegas.”
Chairs scrape. Laptops close. People start to gather their things and filter out in clumps. Jett stands and adjusts his posture slightly, like he’s already preparing for Saturday's big game.
Riley walks past him. “Saturday will be here in no time.”
Jett smirks. “Good. I’m ready.”
Manny, Valerie, and Jett exit the boardroom deep in conversation about something, probably endorsement deals, brand alignment, protein shakes, or whatever else athletes and agents talk about. The rest follow behind, like a well-oiled, extremely stylish parade.
I gather my things. Riley’s multitasking, balancing a tablet in one hand and whisper-shouting into her phone.
We leave the boardroom and head through Media and Comms.
She finishes her call just as I open my office door and toss everything inside.
“You busy now?” she asks.
I stick my head back out. “No. Why?”
“I need to show you something in the parking lot.”
I frown. “What?”
“Just come with me.”
I shut the door behind me and trail her, glancing around. The place is weirdly empty, like everyone got the same memo to vanish at once.
“Where is everyone?” I murmur, but Riley doesn’t answer.
Out of the glass doors, we walk down the corridor toward the main entrance. Her heels click with purpose. Mine click with suspicion.
“Your Dad say anything else about Blake hitting him?”
I don’t answer.
Because no, he hasn’t. And even if he had, I don’t trust myself to say anything right now that won’t come out in all caps and profanity.
We reach the main doors. Sunlight streaks in as I open them, and we head out into the parking lot, which is surprisingly packed.
So, this is where everybody went.
The low hum of voices is everywhere, layered with the scrape of sneakers on pavement, and someone’s laughing far too loudly. People are bunched together in clumps like they’re waiting for a parade or an alien ship to land.
Valerie is half-gesturing about something while Torro, Andrew, Musa, Gretchen, and Holly are all standing in a loose circle near one of the Aces-branded vans, exchanging confused looks like they missed a meeting.
Andrew’s waving his phone around mid-rant, probably live-tweeting something, and Mikey is filming everything with that damn handheld camera he’s surgically attached to. Tarquin, Suzanna, and Calam are near the back, just looking utterly baffled.
But it’s not just them. It’s players, too. A lot of them.
Blake's standing dead center like gravity obeys him personally.
He’s in a tight huddle with Peters, Jett, McAvoy, and Brody, heads close like they’re planning a coup. Bishy and Davis are mock-wrestling near the curb, grinning like idiots. Vasko’s leaning against the hood of someone’s car with his arms folded, watching everyone.
Almost the entire damn team is out here, along with half of security.
And all of them are looking in one direction.
Mine and Riley's.
Blake turns, and I catch it, the shift of his shoulder, the... Oh, fuck, swollen face, and black eyes, which are now meeting mine without blinking.
I immediately look at the sky, the pavement, a vaguely interesting crack in the sidewalk…anything that isn’t the sharp line of his jaw or that infuriating glint he still manages to have.
“What the heck is going on?” I hiss, turning to Riley, who’s trying way too hard to keep her mouth from betraying her.
She checks her watch. “You’ll see.”
And then, something shifts.
First, it’s just Valerie glancing upward, shading her eyes. Then Torro’s pointing. “Look.”
More heads turn. Mikey actually gasps. Amelia’s mouth falls open like someone hit her with plot-twist-level gossip.
I squint, confused, following their line of sight.
There’s a sound now. A low hum, somewhere between a growl and a purr, getting steadily louder. Not the usual traffic drone or stadium speakers. No, this is something else. Something airborne.
“What is that?” I mutter.
Riley is absolutely failing to hide her smirk now.
Above the skyline, coming in from the right, a small plane appears. Low. Very low. I feel it in my chest as it approaches, the engine’s hum deepening, vibrating through my ribs like a second heartbeat.
And that’s when I see it. A banner trailing behind the plane, flapping in the wind.
I blink, trying to read it, but it's too far. The letters are big, but I still can’t quite make them out—
Then the plane banks slightly, the sun glints off the wings, and it’s directly overhead now.
Everyone gasps. People laugh. I just stare open-mouthed.
The banner is impossible to miss now. Bold black lettering leaps from stark white fabric, trailing like a comet.
“Cassy, I love you. Please, for God’s sake, forgive me…”
Oh. My. God. What the actual?
I don’t move. My mouth is doing something, but I’m not sure what.
I scowl at Riley like she personally flew the damn plane.
She shrugs. “Told you you’d see.”
I want to be mad. I should be mad. But when I glance back, Blake’s still watching me. Not smug. Not cocky. Just standing there, waiting.
And something inside me, some pitiful, traitorous organ that clearly has zero respect for my boundaries, softens.
He starts walking toward me.
The crowd seems to blur. I hear people talking, but it’s all static now. All I see is him, closing the gap like it’s always been his job. The plane is already disappearing into the distance, but everyone’s still watching us.
He reaches me, and I’m still wearing a frown, but it cracks, just slightly, like my face forgot how to hold it.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t say a word. Just steps in and takes me with his strong hands around my waist, tugging me into him like this is where I’ve belonged all along.
His face is close. Closer. Lips almost touching.
“You asshole,” I whisper into his mouth. Then we’re kissing. It’s not sweet. It’s not delicate. It’s messy and hot and completely unfit for public consumption.
I can taste the apology in his mouth and the want and the regret and the damn and the, God, I missed you.
People are laughing and clapping.
“Way to go, Mitchell!” someone shouts.
“Be careful, don’t eat the girl…”
But we don’t hear them. Not really. Because we’re in it now.
He and I.
Riley’s voice comes from somewhere off to the side, awkward and trying not to be. “I’ll… err… leave you two to get a bit of, umm… privacy.”